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Frontispiece. Page 46. 







Lenore Annandale. 


BY 


/ 


EVELYN EVERETT GREEN, 

Author of Head of the House f foint Guardians ‘ 
Alistress of Lydgate^" Barbara' s Brothers f “ Two 
Enthusiasts^" Her Husband's Home" 



SFP 1 81889 

V. ‘^//\SH(NGTC 


/ 


“The Eternal God is thy refuge ; and underneath 
are the everlasting arms.” — Deut. xxxiii. 27. 


BOSTON : 

f%. IRA BRADLEY & CO. 


‘ Tht 


-adr^ 


COFTKIGHT, 1889. 

IRA BRADLEY & CO. 


1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. In the Orchard 5 

^ II. The Egremont Family 14 

III. Marjory’s Opinions 26 

IV. Terence 32 

V. The Hero at Home 43 

VI. Brothers ! 57 

VII. By the Mere 68 

VIII. (Lenore’s Resolve 80 

IX. Telling the News 91 

X. Lenore’s Arrival 102 

XI. First Impression 1 15 

XII. A Strange Woman 130 

XIH. Campbell’s Story 142 

XIV. Light 155 

XV. A Stranger 166 

XVI. Public and Private Opinion 173 

XVII. The Meeting 182 

^XVIII. Dangerous Ground 193 

XIX. Perplexity 202 

XX. Forrester’s Plot 208 

XXL A Hard-fought Fight 216 

XXII. Rejected 226 

XXIII. Shadows 238 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE 

XXIV. Changes for Lenore 248 

XXV. A Visitor 259 

XXVI. The Mystery Solved 269 

XXVII. Dora’s Return 285 

XXVIII. Rumors 292 

XXIX. A Glad Surprise 301 

XXX. Terence at Bay .' 311 

XXXI. Duff’s Diplomacy 321 

XXXII. A Strange Letter 330 

XXXIII. An Unexpected Interview 337 

XXXIV. Wedded 346 

XXXV. Coming Home 352 

XXXVI. At the Gates of Death 363 

XXXVII. Man and Wife 371 

XXXXIII. A United Family 378 

XXXIV. The Last 387 



LENORE ANNANDALE, 


CHAPTER I. 

IN THE ORCHARD. 

4 ENORE ANNANDALE sat in the swing- which hung 
from the gnarled and knotted bough of one of the 
orchard trees. She leaned her head dreamily against the 
hand which grasped the thick rope, and her deep-looking 
hazel eyes were fixed on vacancy. Her other hand lay 
upon her lap, and held a small, well-worn volume 
whose dark red morocco cover and gilt edges showed 
traces of having l^een in constant use for many long 
years. At her feet lay a beautiful young collie dog of 
glossy blackness, who alternately lifted his expressive 
brown eyes to watch the movements of his mistress, 
and lowered them to blink contentedly at the declining 
sun, whose soft radiance was now falling tenderly upon 
the earth, and turning everjdhing it touched into shim- 
mering gold. 

The girl sitting in the swing on this lovely May 
evening seemed to be thinking deeply, and had re- 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


6 

mained motionless and absorbed for a long while. The 
birds sang sweetly in the trees around her ; the breeze 
rustled through the tender green leaves ; the blended 
sounds of human voices, lowing of cattle, and murmur 
of water reached her faintly from the wooded pasture 
land of the hollow below ; the declining sun set the 
western sky in a blaze of glory, and filled the whole 
earth with an intense and transient beauty which 
seemed each moment to increase; yet Lenore still sat 
in dreamy unconsciousness of all around her, thinking 
out her own thoughts in the quiet solitude ol the old 
orchard. 

They did not seem to be sad thoughts exactly, for the 
serious young face did not look troubled, but only 
engrossed and absorbed ; yet every now and then a 
shadow would flit for a moment across the expressive 
face, and at last a wistful look dawned in the clear, 
sweet eyes, and Lenore roused herself from he‘r reverie 
with a soft long-drawn sigh. 

“ If I did,” she said half aloud, and the wistful look 
was more visible than before, “I should have to say 
good-bye to all here — the dear old place that has been 
such a happy home to me almost ever since I can re- 
member ; and it would be very hard, for I love it so 
much. . . . And they would all be against it, I know, 
for they have always treated me like a sister, and they 
aredike brothers and sisters to me, and I have never had 
others. . . . Yes, they would be against it, I know; 
but then I must think of what is right — of what I ought 
to do. Women are not meant, I am sure, to lead idle, 
useless, helpless lives, just because they are women. 
... I know Philip is anxious about the future. I know 
the seasons have been bad ; he cannot get the rents in ; 
Terence is an expense to him — I wish he could learn 


nv THE ORCHARD. 


7 


not to be extravagant and careless — and there are 
Hector and Archie just getting to the most expensive 
age/' 

Here Lenore paused and knitted her brows, and 
went on still speaking slowly and dreamily j 
I ought to help them, and I believe I could help 
them if I really set myself to try. I am no relative, and 
yet they have kept me here all these years, and treated 
me like one of themselves. I ought to do something in 
return for them if I can ; and I should so like to feel 
that I was taking a little off from Philip’s burden of care. 
He is so good and unselfish that he never complains ; 
but I am sure he must feel the burden very heavy 
sometimes.” 

Again Lenore paused, and a soft, tender light shone 
now out x>f her eyes ; her voice, too, seemed to take a 
corresponding softness : 

“ I should so like to help him, even if it were to take 
me away for a little while from them all. I don’t think 
I should mind anything very much if only I could feel 
I was helping Philip. If I were gone there would be 
one less to keep — of course they would say that in a 
large family one makes no difference, but everyone 
must make a little difference. And then there is the 
twenty-four pounds a year which Philip always gives 
me for my dress — that would be saved, and if I could 
get a situation anywhere with a pretty good salary, 
why, then I should be able to send money home, to 
help them to get Hector's education finished and to give 
him a start in life, and I should like that ! ” 

A smile of glad anticipation lighted the girl's face, 
showing that it was a face not naturally over grave or 
serious. Eyes and lips alike smiled, and two small 
dimples showed themselves in cheek and chin. Le- 


8 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


nore’s face was at all times a lovable and attractive one ; 
but when she smiled there was a curious kindling light 
awakened there, which gave it a peculiar fascination. 

The dog, who since Lenore had begun to soliloquize 
had risen and indulged himself in a succession of 
luxurious stretches, now laid his head upon her lap in 
token of sympathy with whatever thoughts she might 
have. She looked down and stroked his black head 
and silky ears : 

“ Col — nice old fellow — I think I shall have to take 
you with me wherever I go, if I do go. I don’t think we 
could ever bear to be separated ; and it would be like 
taking a little bit of the dear old home with me to have 
you. You would come with me, wouldn’t you ? ” 

Colin wagged his tail in assent, and lifted up one tan 
paw as if to seal the compact 

Lenore smiled as she caressed him once more ; but 
her eyes had grown dreamy, and her thoughts were 
already flowing in a different channel : 

I have been thinking about it a good while, and try- 
ing to make up my mind ; but yet F don’t believe I 
realize a bit what it will be like to go away and make 
a home somewhere else. « It will be very hard, I know 
— sometimes I can’t believe that I ever shall do it I 
don’t like changes. I like everything to be always as 
it is ; but there is something which never changes — I 
suppose wherever I go I shall not lose that — -nothing 
can take it away. ” 

Dreamily Lenore’s deep eyes looked out upon the 
golden world, dreamily her fingers turned the leaves of 
the book she held upon her knee, until they reached a 
well-worn leaf upon which lay a small bunch of dried 
violets, dreamily did her voice repeat some well-known 
words, at which her eyes did not need to look : 


IN THE ORCHARD. 


9 

“ *The Eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are 
the everlasting arms. ' " 

A slow, sweet smile stole over Lenore's face : 

“ ‘ The everlasting arms,' ” she repeated ; “it seems 
to rest one only to say the words. They will be under 
me as much in one place as another. I need not be 
afraid. I sometimes have thought that the farther away 
we are from our earthly friends, the nearer we draw to 
God. He is our Refuge, and we can always go to Him 
in trouble." 

The sorrow had all gone out of Lenore’s face,, and a 
peaceful serenity had taken its place. 

Colin suddenly pricked his ears, and looked towards 
the low orchard wall, which on one side bordered the 
adjoining field. 

“ It is Philip, " said Lenore. ‘ ‘ I should like to tell him, 
but I must not, I shall say nothing till all is decided. 
He would try and dissuade me, and I always find it so 
hard to oppose Philip. I think I will wait until things 
have gone so far that I cannot draw back. That will 
be the best way to do ; for just now I hardly feel as 
though I knew my own mind, and I must make that 
up before I begin to talk to other people." 

Philip Egremont came striding along through the 
long grass, with his dog at his heels — another collie 
whom Colin immediately joined and tried to coax into 
a game of play. The young man was tall, broad- 
shouldered, and powerfully made, with a fine head 
which he carried well, and a something in his whole 
bearing which seemed to express the unconscious dig- 
nity of a man born to command. This he had inherit- 
ed from a line of ancestors of which he had every right 
to be proud ; and yet Philip himself knew little of fame 
or wealth, and all that he could call his own was the 


10 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


few hundred acres of farm-land around his home, and 
the large family of sisters and brothers for whom, since 
his parents’ death, many years ago now, he had had to 
provide. 

The Egremonts had once been a noble and powerful 
family ; but they had been ruined by the Civil War in 
the days of Charles I, and they had never retrieved their 
fallen fortunes, to any appreciable extent. 

Once they had owned a castle, but that was many 
long years ago ; now the family lived in far more hum- 
ble style, and Philip’s house bore no higher sounding a 
name than Cottesmere Farm. 

At twenty-one Philip had been left in sole charge cf 
the farm and the land around it. His parents died 
within a few months of each other, leaving him with 
seven sisters and brothers younger than himself, whom 
he, as head of the family, felt bound to watch over and 
guide, as he believed his parents would have wished, 
had they lived to arrange matters themselves. 

That was seven years ago now ; and the burden 
which Philip had taken upon himself he had borne 
bravely and well ; but it had left some traces upon him, 
which showed that he had suffered anxiety and was 
familiar with care. 

The dark gray eyes were serious and thoughtful ; the 
broad brow was lined with furrows which do not gen- 
erally appear till middle-life ; and the whole expression 
worn by the handsome, well-cut face was one of grav- 
ity and determination, somewhat remarkable in one so 
young. And yet, with all its firmness, it was not a 
hard face, but a kindly and gentle one — a face to in- 
spire trust and to win confidence. Philip Egremont 
might be too quiet and reserved to have many friends ; 


IN THE ORCHARD. 1 1 

but at least he did not know what it was to have an 
enemy. 

That he was a friend to Lenore could be seen at a 
glance, by the lighting up of her face at his approach. 

“Philip/^ she said, and smiled as if to welcome 
him. 

“ I thought you must be asleep,’' he said ; “ you sat 
there so still and so long. Shall I give you a swing?” 

Lenore laughed and shook her head : 

“ Have you done for to-day? What have you been 
at ? ” 

“Nothing special — rolling the grass and hoeing the 
potatoes. It is a comfort to get some fine weather at 
last. What have you been doing — agoing to sleep ? ” 

“No — I sleep at orthodox times only. I came out 
to think.’ 

“ ‘ A penny for your thoughts,’ then.” ^ 

“They are much too precious to part with at that 
price. ” 

Lenore spoke lightly ; yet there was a look in her 
eyes which rather belied the gayety of her tone. 

Philip’s keen eyes met hers in a quick, penetrating 
glance, and then lighted upon the little book she held 
in her hand. But he asked no question. 

There was silence for a moment Lenore sat still in 
her swing, and Philip stood leaning against a tree trunk 
close by, gazing out over the soft, undulating country, 
now looking peculiarly lovely in the mellow after-glow 
left by the departed sun. 

‘Is anything the matter, Philip?’ asked Lenore, 
fancying she saw an unusual shade of gravity resting 
upon his face. 

He did not answer for a moment, and when he did 
speak it hardly seemed a direct reply : 


12 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“I have heard from Terence.” 

“ Have you ? ” said Lenore quickly. “ How is he ? 
What does he say } ” 

“A good many things. For one, that he is coming 
home for a short time very soon.” 

‘ ‘ Has he got leave } ” 

“ Yes, and his regiment is to be quartered atChiveley 
almost immediately, so we shall see a good deal of 
him through the summer.” 

Lenore made no remark, but merely asked, 

“Are you glad, Philip ? ” 

“ For some things I am. I shall be glad to see more 
of Terence.” 

Lenore looked up at him, and said after a pause, and 
rather timidly. 

“ I’m afraid you are often very anxious about Terence, 
Philip.” ■* 

“Well, yes, Lenore, I am; it is no good trying to 
hide it — I am anxious about him. He is brave and 
generous and high-spirited, and a handsomer fellow 
never lived, I think, nor one more generally popular 
with all ; but it is just such a nature that most wants 
ballast — you know what I mean — and that, I am afraid, 
is just what Terence lacks.” 

“ I know what you mean.” said Lenore softly. “ Oh, 
Philip, I sometimes think it must be dreadful to grow 
up without that. I can’t tell how they can seem so 
happy. I wish — I wish Terence could understand what 
it is, and how it helps and comforts us.” 

“So do I,” answered Philip ; and presently he added 
with unusual earnestness, “ Lenore, I feel as though I 
could give or sacrifice anything^ if I could only feel 
assured of Terence’s future.” 

“And I wish,” added Lenore, with equal earnest- 


IN THE ORCHARD. 1 3 

ness, “that I could do anything to help you to feel 
assured of it.” 

He looked at her with a smile : 

“Perhaps you will help us both. Your influence 
over Terence is always great ; and women can do more 
than men. I believe you will help us, Lenore, as you 
have helped us before. And now I think we must be 
going in. The dew is falling, and Madeline will 
be looking for me.” 




CHAPTER II. 


THE EGREMONT FAMILY. 


OGETHER Lenore and Philip quitted the shady or- 



▼ chard, and turned into a winding- gravel path which 
led to the well-stocked kitchen-garden, and through it to 
the thick, dark shrubbery which separated it from the 
lawn and flower-garden, that lay before the house 


itself. 


Cottesmere Farm was a picturesque, old-fashioned 
building, long and irregularly built, with gable ends 
and latticed windows, and sweet-scented climbing plants, 
roses, jessamine, and honeysuckle growing all over its 
warm red brick walls. There was a deep, picturesque 
porch, literally curtained with white clematis, now just 
coming into bloom ; and in the farther portion of the 
house which looked more modern than the main build- 
ing, some long French windows stood open down to the 
ground, to admit the sweet, soft air which seemed to 
speak of approaching summer. 

Where the house stood, the ground sloped gently down 
in terraces of smooth, close-cut lawn, which were 
dotted with dark evergreen trees and shrubs, towards 
a little silvery brook that babbled by, making much 
rippling music, and lost itself a little farther on in the 



THE EGREMONT TAMIL K 


15 

shining waters of the Mere, which lay gleaming in the 
wooded hollow not a quarter of a mile away. 

Although the lawns were kept in a state of velvet 
smoothness, and the paths were as neat as the lawns, 
yet the garden itself was not laid out with the geomet- 
rical precision that is often to be seen. That great 
care was taken with it might be seen by the absence of 
weeds, and by the luxuriance, without wildness, that 
v/as ever visible. But it was the care of loving, girlish 
hands, not the hired skill of the gardener, that produced 
the result described. No ribbon borders or mosaic 
work of flowers was to be seen in the gardens of Cot- 
tesmere Farm. The borders were full of sweet-scented 
roses, some amongst them just bursting into bloom, of 
tall lilies whose glory was yet to come, of graceful 
campanulas, many colored phloxes, brilliant poppies, 
and other old-fashioned flowers, which would soon 
awake to their summer beauty, and make the garden 
one mass of bloom. 

But the time of the summer flowers was not yet 
come, although the air was heavy with the fragrance 
of the lilac and lily of the valley ; and the azaleas and 
rhododendrons gave warmth and color to the garden. 
Lenore plucked a spray of delicate yellow blossom as 
she passed the azalea bed, and fastened it in the front 
of her dress : 

“Days like this make one feel as though the spring 
were almost over. Sometimes I wish it would be al- 
ways spring-time, Philip.’' 

“Then the charm would vanish, I am afraid," an- 
swered Philip with a smile ; “but I know what you 
mean. " 

“Philip, is that you.?" called a gay, girlish voice 
from the house. ‘‘ We thought you were never com- 


i6 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


ing in. Supper is nearly ready. Is that Lenore with 
you ? I fancied she was hopelessly lost ! 

“Not quite hopelessly,” answered Philip, as he and 
Lenore entered the porch, and turned into a long, low, 
wainscoted room to the left, where stood a long table, 
spread with a white cloth, and laid out for a substan- 
tial supper. A hissing urn stood at the far end of the 
table, and Madeline Egremont stood beside it, making 
tea. At their entrance she looked up and greeted them 
with a smile. 

Bright-eyed, curly-headed Marjory, who had called 
to them just before, was leaning out of the window, 
which stood in a deep recess, and thus gave additional 
length to the room, and as they entered she turned 
round laughing : 

“You look like two owls — blinking at the lamps like 
that ! Col, come and kiss me. I wish you weren't so 
faithful to your mistress. I wanted you to have a walk 
with me ; but of course you were with Lenore. Give 
me a paw — good dog ! — you have the loveliest eyes in 
the world. Col — almost as beautiful as mine.” 

“What an overpowering compliment ! ” said a lazy 
voice somewhere in the shadows of the room. “If 
Col appreciated it properly he would never get over 
it.” 

Marjory turned quickly towards the dim recess from 
which the voice proceeded : 

“ Are you there. Duff? I didn’t know you had come 
in.” 

A tall, long-limbed, broad-chested young fellow of 
two-and-twenty summers emerged, leisurely from his 
secluded corner, and advanced towards Marjory. He 
was like Philip, although decidedly less handsome ; 
yet what he lacked in regularity of feature, he almost 


THE EGREMONT FAMfL F. 


17 


made up for in brightness of expression, and a cer- 
tain comical turn of the lips and twinkle of the brown 
eyes gave a character to his face, which was quite as 
prepossessing as actual beauty. He and Marjory were 
fast friends, and ceaseless wranglers, and every spare 
moment was tilled up by teasing or disputing over any- 
thing and everything that turned up. Their voices al- 
ways seemed to form a kind of running accompaniment 
to all else that was said, and was no more heeded by 
the others than the babbling of the brook, or the rus- 
tling of the leaves without. 

Lenore had taken her sdat at table, and was resting 
her elbows upon it, and her chin upon her clasped 
hands, thinking of what Philip had said about Terence. 

Philip and Madeline were talking together in low 
tones. 

"‘Terence coming home?'' said Madeline. “I am 
glad of that. He has not been home for a long while 
now." 

“ Terencfe coming home ? " repeated Marjory, catch- 
ing the words. ‘Hs he really ? I am glad ! ; .How do 
you know ? " 

“ I have a letter from him," said Philip but he did 
not produce the letter, and Madeline and Lenore both 
noticed the slight shade that rested on his face. 

The servant had brought in the hot dishes, and had 
rung the great bell in the hall. 

There was a sound of flying footsteps, and two 
rough-headed, brown-faced boys of twelve and fourteen 
rushed like a whirlwind into the room, and took their 
places at table with a vast amount of unnecessary 
noise. 

Philip took his place at the foot, and the meal began ; 
but there was still one vacant chair, and presently the 


1 8 LENORE ANNANDALE, 

door opened, and a tall, pale girl entered quietly, and 
took her seat without any word of explanation or 
apology. 

Dora was not like any of her family ; she never 
seemed as though she could belong to the fair-skinned, 
open-faced Egremont family. Her face was handsome 
in its own way, but it was more like the face of a 
Spanish than of an English woman. Eyes and hair 
were jet black ; the complexion was a pale, clear olive ; 
and the dark, thick brows, which arched themselves 
over the lustrous eyes, gave an almost frowning char- 
acter to the face. Her expression, too, was utterly un- 
like the one worn by the faces around her. It was 
grave to severity, and, besides the gravity, there was a 
look of discontent visible there, which at times was 
very marked, and which spoiled what might otherwise 
have been described as an interesting and intellectual 
cduntenance. 

No one seemed to have much to say to her, arid no 
face brightened at her approach ; but presently Duff 
asked : 

“Have you heard the news, Dora ?” 

“ What news ? ” 

“ That Terence is coming home soon." 

“Is he.?" 

“So it seems. He has written to tell Philip.’’ 

“Oh!" 

That was all. Dora showed no signs of special in- 
terest, nor did the news rouse her to animation. How- 
ever, as nobody seemed to look for any such result, it 
may be supposed that she was not given to manifest 
her feelings openly. 

Hector and Archie finished their supper, and said 
good-night. Dora vanishe as quietly as she had come. 


THE EG RE MO NT TAMIL Y. 


19 

Marjory and Duff strolled out into the garden, and 
Lenore crossed over to the window and leaned out into 
the sweet, still night. 

Philip and Madeline drew near together, for that 
quiet exchange of confidences which was one of the 
chief pleasures of their lives. 

Madeline was but a year younger than Philip, and 
there was a strong likeness between them. She was 
tall and fair, with a calm, sweet, thoughtful face, and a 
serene expression which gave to it a subtle charm, 
almost more potent than delicacy of feature or bril- 
liancy of coloring ; and with all its sweetness it did not 
lack power, and there was much of the same kind of 
firmness in its lines as was more strongly traced upon 
Philip's serious face. 

If Philip had tried to fill the father’s place to the 
family left orphaned so young and so suddenly, Made- 
line had equally tried to fill that of mother, and the 
bond between brother and sister was unusually strong 
and tender. 

“Madeline,” said Philip, as he drew from his pocket 
a cldsely-written letter, “Terence has been getting 
into debt again. 

“Has he.?” returned Madeline, a shade of anxiety 
falling upon her face. “I am very sorry. I did hope 
that after the affair of last year he would have been 
more careful ; he seemed so very sorry for all the 
trouble he had given you. I thought it would really 
have made an impression upon jiim that time.” 

“I am afraid impressions with Terence do not last 
long,” answered Philip. “They are very real whilst 
they are fresh upon him ; but their influence soon 
passes. He is very sorry, and writes most humbly, 
and I dare say, poor lad, that he does find it hard 


20 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


to keep within the limits of what I can allow him. 
Living more in the world, as he does, he feels our 
poverty more than the rest of us do ; but I wish he 
could learn to be i^iore thoughtful, and to understand, 
what I have so often tried to explain, that his extrava- 
gance is really robbing the younger boys. The money 
that paid his last debts was what I had saved to give 
Duff a start in life ; and although he is content to stay 
upon the farm, and is so useful to me that I hardly 
know how I could spare him, yet it is hardly fair 
towards him that he should lose what was his by moral 
right ; and here are more debts just when times are bad ; 
and I am so anxious about Hector, for he will never 
make a farmer, and it is time to be settling what the 
boy is to be. I hardly know what to say or do in re- 
gard to Terence s affairs. I must be just to the younger 
boys. Terence cannot have all ; and yet an Egremont 
was never before disgraced, and to" my^ mind there is 
something that almost amounts to disgrace in leaving 
a place in debt, and helping perhaps to ruin poor trades- 
men who have dealt honestly, and expect to be paid 
honestly.” 

Philip’s face was grave and anxious, and Madeline’s 
full of perplexed thought. 

“ It is hard to know how to act,” she said. “But 
about the debts, Philip — they are not “debts of dis- 
honor ” like the last ? He has not been gambling 
again ? ” 

“I trust not — I hope not — at least he has given me 
no reason to think so. He has sent me the bills, and 
they are all honest debts ; but what he has done with 
his pay and with his allowance I cannot tell.” 

“What is the amount?” 

“Just upon forty pounds. He tells rne there are ten 


THE EG REMONT FAMILY, 


2 r 

owing to him from a friend, and he expects to be paid 
shortly ; but there is evidently nothing to meet the re- 
mainder. Thirty pounds in ready money is a mere 
trifle to many people ; but it is a large sum to us.” 

“Philip,” said a voice from the distant window, “ 1 
don t know whether you know that I am here ; but if 
you are talking secrets I will go ; for I cannot help 
hearing partly what you are saying.” 

“ No, Lenore, you need not go,” answered Philip, 
looking up ; “ if you have heard so much, you may 
hear all. You will not speak of it to the others, I know ; 
though I am afraid it is no secret to any of them that 
Terence is not all we could wish.” 

“ No,” answered Lenore, as Philip’s remark seemed 
by the tone in which it was put to demand an answer, 

“ they do know that he is reckless and extravagant; 
but Marjory is just as devoted to him as ever. I almost 
think she seems to glory in his escapades. Dora, of 
course, does not say much ; but I fancy she half admires 
and half despises him ; only I never do understand 
what Dora thinks.” 

“Nor I,” said Philip; and then there was a short 
pause, after which he turned again to Madeline, and ^ 
the quiet talk went on as before. 

“ I feel as though I must make one more effort, and 
help him to leave Munstead free of debt. When he 
comes home I must speak very seriously to him, and 
whilst his regiment is stationed at Chiveley I shall be 
able to look after his affairs a little, if he will let me ; 
and perhaps the old home influence may help to keep 
him steady. I will make this one effort, though 1 
hardly know how the money is to be got together. 
I’m afraid I must sell the two Alderney heifers. They 
ought to fetch eighteen pounds each at least, though 


22 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


market prices are low just now. I don't like robbing- 
the stock, and it is bad farming, I know ; but I see no 
other way of doing it. The hay is almost gone, and 
all that comes in I want for wages and current ex- 
penses, " 

“It is very hard upon you to have all this extra 
anxiety on Terence’s account," said Madeline with a 
sigh. “If he could only understand the difficulties of 
your position, I do think he would be more thoughtful ; 
but it seems as though he cannot learn care or con- 
sideration." 

“Poor lad!" said Philip once again, “it must be 
very hard for him — popular, sought after, and caressed 
as he is — to learn the care and economy which are no 
hardships in our quiet, secluded life. We must try not 
to judge him harshly — no doubt the temptations in his 
path are very great. ” 

“ Yes," answered Madeline softly, “ and I fear poor 
Terence has not yet learned in Whose strength only 
temptation can be withstood.” 

Then there was silence between the two, which was 
broken by the soft, quick footsteps of Lenore. They 
did not see that she had just before slipped noiselessly 
from the room, and had run up the shallow steps of the 
wide oak staircase that led to the rooms above ; but 
now that she had returned and stood beside them, they 
saw that her cheeks were flushed, and that her eyes 
were bright, and that her words came with unusual 
haste, as though she was confused or afraid. 

She held out towards Philip a small bag, such as is 
often used to keep money in : 

“There, Philip, let him have that — send that to Ter- 
ence and keep the heifers. It is all yours — I have only 
been keeping it for you. Take it now, and don’t let the 


THE EG REMONT FAMILY, 


n 


thing- trouble you any more. It will be enough, and 
'I'erence must learn to be more careful, when he comes 
home and sees how things are here.^’ 

“ But, Lenore, what is it ? What do you mean ? I 
do not understand you. What is in this bag ? ’’ 

“Money,” she answered ; and the delicate rose pink 
in her cheeks deepened to a carmine. “ There is a little 
more than thirty pounds there. Let Terence have it 
for his debts, and keep the heifers. Don’t impoverish 
the farm ; send this — it is all your own.” 

“ I do not understand yet, Lenore,” said Philip, in 
his quiet, kindly way ; and surprised as he was, he 
gave no outward token of astonishment. ‘ ‘ This money 
cannot be mine. How do you make it out ? I know 
nothing of it.” 

“ No ; but it is yours for all that,” persisted Le- 
nore. ‘ ‘ Have you not been giving me money year after 
year for dress ? Well, I have never spent it all. Every 
year I have saved some. And then the chickens you 
gave me, you never would take the eggs amongst 
yours ; you would give me the money they brought 
in — well, I saved that too. And those little stories and 
verses I write sometimes for that children’s paper, I get 
guineas and half-guineas for them, and they all go into 
the bag. It is all yours, Philip ; I have been saving it 
all for you. I wanted to buy you a horse to ride, for I 
know you want one ; but I think perhaps that, as this 
trouble has come, it will help you more to send it to 
Terence. It is yours, Philip ; take it, and do what you 
wish with it.” 

Philip looked earnestly into Lenore’s flushed face, 
and slowly reached out his hand for the bag she still 
continued to hold out, but then paused, and did not 
take it 


N 

24 LENORE ANNAADALE. 

“ Lenore,” he said, “I hardly like to do it — it is 
most noble and generous of you — but it is too much. 

“ Too much ! ” echoed Lenore with a quick spasm of 
pain in her voice. “Too much — and after all you have 
been to me, and have done for me all these years ! 
Philip, you should not say such a thing to me — to me 
who owe everything to you and yours.” 

“ Hush, Lenore ! you owe us nothing — you have 
been a sister — more than a sister to us. You are one 
of us.’’ 

“ I am not one of you ! ” cried Lenore with a sudden 
burst of the vehemence caused by deep feeling. “ I 
know that you haye always treated me as such ; but I am 
not one of you. I am a stranger — a friendless orphan, 
with no one in the world to love or care for me. Yes, 
Philip, I will speak this once — I will say a little of what 
I feel. My mother was a friend of your mother — that 
is all my claim, and when she died in poverty and sor- 
row, your mother took me into her house, and brought 
me up as her own ; and you have all adopted me for 
a sister, and have never let me feel for one moment my 
dependent position. And I have accepted the place 
you have given me — I have taken a sister’s place 
among you ; and now I claim a sister’s right to do 
what I can to help my brothers when the need for it 
has arisen. Philip, can you not see that, if you dis- 
allow my claim to do that, you virtually show me 
that I am not one of yourselves t ” 

The girl stopped speaking, and looked at him. It 
was not often that Lenore was moved to such earnest 
vehemence, and therefore this burst of feeling carried 
with it the more weight. 

Philip hesitated no longer, but took the little bag. 

“ Lenore,” he said, “you are right. You have been 


THE EGREMONT FAMIL K 


25 

as a sister to us, and your claim shall not be disputed ; 
but Terence shall know to whom he owes this help. 
Perhaps that knowledge will help better than anything 
else could do to make him careful for the future.” 

Lenore s face had cleared, but all she said was, 
“Thank you, Philip,” and then she walked away, 
leaving the brother and sister together once more. 

Philip's face was grave and pale : and a keen eye 
might detect a look of pain in his steadfast eyes. 

“Madeline,” he asked in a low voice, which was not 
quite like his usual tones, “do you think — have you 
ever thought that Lenore cares much for Terence t ” 

And Madeline answered, without looking at him, “I 
cannot tell, Philip. I have no reason to think that she 
does.” 

Philip rose and paced once or twice up and down the 
room : 

She has always had more influence with him than 
anyone else, ever since they were children together. 
Perhaps it might be the saving of him if it were to 
be so. He is the kind of man to win any woman's 
love ; and Lenore has always stood his friend. I be- 
lieve it might make a different man of him if it were so 
— and yet, and yet, Madeline, it is not the end for 
which I have hoped, and about which I have some- 
times dreamed.” The look of pain was very visible 
now, and there was pain, too, in his voice. 

“I know what you mean, Philip,” said Madeline 
softly ; “ I have hoped that too.” 



CHAPTER III. 
Marjory’s opinions. 


** J^UFF ! " 

^ Marjory ! ” 

“ Lend me your knife a moment to cut this strag- 
gling branch off.” 

“You shouldn’t garden on the Sabbath-day,” said 
Duff, leisurely producing the knife, and pruning away 
the offending branch. “ Why do you not go with Dora, 
and teach is the Sunday-school.?” 

“ Because I can’t bear it. I like being good in my 
own way, not in Dora’s ; and I never could teach a 
class. I can’t sit still all that time, let alone the talking. 
If I could play the organ in church, like Lenore, and 
train the choir, I would ; but I never could teach in the 
schools.” 

“ Well, Fm sure I never asked you to,” answered 
Duff with lazy good-humor. “You need not get so 
hot about it. I don’t imagine you would be of any 
tremendous utility in the school if you did go. You 
a pupil, though, and get Dora to take you 
in hand. It is always with the most unpromising sub- 
jects she achieves her most brilliant successes, is it 




MARJORY'S OPINIONS. 


27 


not? Marjory tossed her head, but did not pursue 
the topic fartKer, and wandered off to the next subject 
which occurred to her : 

“Terence will be here on Tuesday.” 

“I'm aware of the fact” 

“I shall be so glad when he comes. He always 
has such lots to tell about places and people we never 
see or hear of. ” 

“Yes; he's quite the hero of the family when he 
comes home — like the prodigal son.” 

Marjory gave him a quick glance, but could make 
nothing out from his face, which wore its customary 
expression of comical gravity : 

“It seems to me that Terence is looked upon as a 
black sheep just now, for some inscrutable reason. 
Has he been getting into any scrapes ? ” 

“ Nobody has told me so, if he has.” 

“ Philip and Madeline look grave when his name is 
mentioned, and Lenore gets red and says nothing. I 
can't help thinking there is something in it” 

“Well, your thinking will do nobody any harm.” 

“Don't be tiresome. Duff. Do you know anything 
about it ? ” 

“ I thought I told you that I didn’t” 

“Well, I hope they’ll all be nice to Terence when 
he does come, and not look grave or be silent and re- 
served. I don’t care what he has done — he may not 
be as virtuous or sober as Philip, but Terence is the 
handsomest and the mort delightful brother that ever 
lived, and the house is always another place when he 
is at home.” 

“Quite so ; he comes home covered with glory, like 
the warriors of old, and is the cynosure of all admiring 
eyes. It is the happy fate of all those who wander 


28 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


away from the paternal roof, to seek fame and for- 
tune.” 

Something in his tone piqued Marjory — she fancied 
he was making game of her : 

“ It’s all very well for you to gibe and jeer and talk 
nonsense ; but Terence is twice the man that you will 
ever be.” 

“ What a proud distinction for him ! ” 

"‘Yes,” pursued Marjory with increasing energy, “ I 
shall think what I like and say what I like ; and what 
I say is, that the world would be a much slower and 
stupider place than it is, if all the men in it had no 
more enterprise and spirit, and — well, yes — and reck- 
lessness in them than you and Philip have ! ” 

‘ ‘ I have no doubt you speak the truth ; but we can- 
not all be bright and shining lights like Terence. A 
family of fallen fortunes like ours can only afford or.e 
meteor in a generation. We must try to shine by his 
reflected light.” 

Something in the tone stopped Marjory’s glow of 
eulogy. She looked up quickly at Duff, and saw an 
unusual gravity in his merry gray eyes. 

“Why, yes — I suppose it does take a good deal of 
money to keep Terence,” she said slowly, and then after 
a little thought, asked suddenly: “Duff, why was it 
you never went to Australia to learn sheep-farming, as 
you were to have done ? There was so much talk about 
it at one time, and then it all collapsed. Why was 
it?” 

“There was farming enough hereto keep me em- 
ployed,” answered Duff. “ There goes the church bell ; 
go and put on your bonnet. Family history becomes 
fatiguing when discussed at such length. I’ll wait for 
you in the ten-acre field when I’ve tied the dog up. 


MARJORY^ S OPINION. 


29 


Come, Col — you can’t go to church — you’re too young 
and frivolous. You won’t even go quietly home vvith 
Tweedie, but try and disgrace us by forcing an entrance 
into the church — so you must be tied up — come ! ” 

Duff strode away with Colin at his heels, and Marjory 
went indoors with a graver face than was usual with 
her. 

Marjory’s gravity did not quite desert her all through 
the day. Serious thoughts did not often trouble her 
young head ; but they would rise up now and again, 
and she asked herself many questions which she felt 
herself incapable of answering. 

Lenore was usually Marjory’s confidante whenever 
she was perplexed or distressed ; but to-day there was no 
getting hold of her. Philip and Madeline both seemed 
to have so much to say to her, that Marjory had no 
chance of gaining her attention, and so it came about 
that, for almost the first time in her life, Marjory entered 
into conversation of a personal nature with her rather 
dreaded sister, Dora. 

She was wandering alone in the fields' at twilight 
when she met Dora, who was returning home from 
some expedition, and seemed very deep in thought, 
for she started when she. heard her name spoken. 

Dora ! Where are you going? ” 

^‘Home.” 

“Yes ; but I mean, where have you been ? ” 

“To see Jim Crowder.” 

“What, the woodman who was so ill? How is 
he?” 

“ He is dead.” 

“ Dead ! Oh Dora ! When did he die ? ” 

“Just now.” 

“ What ! — whilst you were there ? 


30 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Yes.” 

“Oh Dora, how dreadful ! Who else was there?” 

“Nobody. His wife had gone for the doctor.” 

“ Oh Dora ! *How could you stay ? Wasn’t it very 
dreadful ? ” 

“No — it did not seem dreadful.” 

“■Weren’t you dreadfully frightened? ” 

“No — I don’t think I was.” 

“Oh Dora ! I can’t think how you could stay. What 
did you feel like ? ” 

“I think, if I felt anything,” answered Dora, in cold, 
measured tones, “ it was that I wished I could change 
places with him. ” 

‘ ‘ Dora ! ” 

Marjory was so aghast that she stopped short to gaze 
with almost frightened eyes into her sister’s pale, quiet 
face. Her next question was put in a frightened tone, 
little more than a whisper : 

‘ ‘ Dora, what does make you say such dreadful things ? 

‘ ‘ Why should you call it dreadful ? That man was 
happier than I have ever been since I can remember— 
happier than I believe I shall ever be. He has a wife 
and children to love him and to mourn for him. His 
life was of use to some in the world. Mine is of no 
use at all, either to myself or to others. I say again I 
would gladly exchange lots with him, were such an 
exchange possible.” 

Marjory looked awed and overpowered ; by-and-by 
she summoned up courage to speak : 

“ But, Dora, what makes you say you are of no use? 
You know you are the cleverest of us all ; and then 
you have your schools and your district, and do more 
than any of the others, and go to church twice as much 
as anybody else, and visit the hospital at Chiveley, and 


MA.R/ORY^S OPINION, 


3 ^ 

lots of horrid places beside. I thought people who did 
things like that were always good and happy. I can t 
understand you when you say such things.” 

Dora smiled bitterly. 

“1 thought so too, once — before I tried; but I have 
not found it produce that result,” answered Dora rather 
dreamily. 

“Then why do you go on ? ” 

“I really hardly know. Working stops thinking, 
and that is the worst thing one can do.” 

“But, Dora, I don’t understand you; why should 
you be unhappy ? ” 

“The wonder is to me how anyone is happy.” 

“Oh Dora!” 

“Anyone here, I mean, &tagnating in this little life. 
I feel stifled. I want to go out into the world, and see 
life as it really is. I feel as though I had power within 
me — ‘I know I have ambition. I want to see more, to 
learn more. I am sick of this monotony of shut-in 
country life. But it is no use thinking or hoping. We 
are a fallen family. Here I am, and here I shall remain 
till the end of the chapter. My dream of seeing the 
world will never be anything but a dream. We are 
poor, and poor we always shall be. I do not wish to 
complain ; but oh ! if I had only lived in the days of our 
past glories, when the Egremonts were a noble and 
powerful house ! That life would have been worth 
living ! ” 

Marjory listened with some curiosity to this speech, 
which gave her more insight into her sister’s way of 
thinking than she had ever had before ; but Dora, as if 
conscious that she had spoken with unusual freedom, 
at once drew into herself again, and declined to become 
more communicative. The walk was finished almost 
in silence. 



CHAPTER IV. 

TERENCE. 

“ 'OHIL — old fellow ! how are you ? I can’t tell you 
▼ how glad I am to see you again, and to feel that 
I am at home once more ! ” 

“Why, Terence,'’ said Philip, turning round with a 
look of glad surprise and welcome in his eyes, “ how 
come you here ? I did not expect to see anything of 
you for an hour or more. They are generally ready to 
devour you at home on your arrival. ” 

“Ah, yes; but you see I have not been home yet. 
1 thought it was you I saw out in the fields, as I drove 
along, so I sent the man on with the trap, and here I 
am. I want to see them all again badly enough ; but 
after all, Phil, you have the first place in my thoughts. 
I should be a worse scamp than I am, if it were not 
so.” 

And Terence, who had not dropped Philip’s hand all 
this while, shook it again with a warmth which left no 
doubt of his sincerity, and his bright, expressive face 
glowed with an honest feeling which made it doubly 
attractive. 

Handsome, warm-hearted Terence ! Was it wonder- 




IRRENCE. 


33 


ful that Philip's eyes should rest upon him with almost 
more than brotherly pride and pleasure, as he stood 
there in the bright sunlight, in all the strength and 
beauty of his early manhood, rejoicing in the very fact 
of his existence, because life looked so bright and glori- 
ous a thing to him ? Was it to be marvelled at that the 
elder brother should almost forget for the moment his 
doubts and anxiety, when he saw how unchanged was 
the old boyish affection, how open and fearless and 
frank the soft, bright eyes, how simple and unaffected 
the words of brotherly greeting? 

If ever there was a man born into the world, calcu- 
lated by the beauty of his person and the charm of his 
manner to conceal from himself and others the faults 
and failings of his nature, that man was Terence Egre- 
mont. 

“ Terence, it is good to see you back again ! " said 
Philip with quiet warmth. “The place never seems 
quite the same when you are away. And how long a 
time are we to have you this year ? It is some while 
since you have had any leave.” 

“Yes, the fates were unpropitious ; but it was worth 
waiting for this. I must join the regiment at Chiveley 
on June i. Till then I am a free man. We ought to 
have glorious weather now that I am home to enjoy 
it ! ” 

“ I trust we may — we want it badly enough. I am 
glad you are to be stationed at Chiveley, Terence. It 
will not seem like losing you altogether. ” 

“I can't tell you how glad I am,” answered Terence 
eagerly. “It was as good as coming into a fortune to 
hear that news. I shall be able to turn over a new leaf 
and start fair, when once I get away from Munstead 
and the set there. I could not bear them and their 

3 


34 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


ways, and yet I could not cut away from them. I am 
thankful to think I am clear of the place, and more 
thankful to feel that Chiveley is to be my destination, 
where the old associations and the influence of home 
will always be present to help me. I know you must 
think me very weak and foolish, and no doubt I am — I 
do not deny it ; but unless you have tried it yourself, 
Phil, you never could know what a difference it makes 
to one to go out into the world, leaving all the dear old 
scenes and gentle, loving faces behind one, and feeling 
that there is nobody left to look after you, or to care 
what you do, or what happens to you. I don’t think any- 
one living away as you have done amongst our sisters, 
and in this sweet, sinless place, can have an idea how 
easily temptation besets us poor fellows, who have to 
go out and rough it in the world, nor how hard it is to 
withstand some of the many temptations.” 

Terence spoke with a good deal of feeling, and 
Philip was moved by his contrition and humility. 

“Terence,” he said quietly, “I do not think I have 
ever judged you hardly. I know that you are often 
much tempted and tried. Perhaps, had T been in 
your place, I might have yielded more readily than 
you have done.” 

“No, no,” answered Terence hastily, and with a 
slight flush on his cheek, “ do not say that It makes me 
more ashamed still. You would have made a far more 
steady officer than I shall ever do. You would make 
a splendid soldier, Phil. But then you have a firmness 
and a determination that I shall never get, I fear. I 
can’t tell how or what it is — it was just the same when 
we were boys together — things that tempted me never 
seemed to touch you ; keeping rules was no trouble to 
you. If I only had your disposition, or whatever it is 


TERENCE. 


35 

that makes you what you are, I should be a very lucky 
fellow. " 

“There is nothing in my disposition that you need 
covet, Terence,” answered Philip with a grave smile. 
“What you need more than you have, you have only 
to strive after, and you will obtain it. Some other 
time we will talk more of this ; for you know as well 
as I do that there is a good deal that must be said be- 
tween us by-and-by. But this is neither the right place 
nor the right time ; and if I keep you to myself much 
longer, I shall never be able to make my peace with 
the girls. Let us come up to the house. It is their 
hour for afternoon tea. If you are fashionable enough 
to patronize that institution, you will be just in time.” 

“ How are the girls?” asked Terence as they took 
their way up the sloping, green hill-side. 

“Well, as usual. We do not trouble the doctor much 
at Cottesmere.” 

“And Duff? Is he at home?” 

“Yes, he’s my right hand here, and has settled down 
wonderfully, all things considered. ” 

“ I don’t think he ever cared two straws about going 
to Australia,” remarked Terence, switching off the 
heads of some nettles which grew in the hedge close 
by. 

“ I don’t know that, Terence,” answered Philip. 
“ He never speaks of it now ; but at one time he was 
very keen about it, and his whole heart seemed in the 
plan.” 

“ He would most likely have made ducks and drakes 
of his money, and failed, and have had to come back 
after all,” argued Terence. “I dare say things have 
turned out best as they are.” 

“He might have failed, of course. It is not every- 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


3^5 

one that succeeds ; but Duff has a long head, and 
knows what he is about. Play ducks and drakes with 
the money, as you call it, he certainly never would 
have done ; and he might have made a fortune and 
become a prosperous farmer. He has many of the 
qualities which are the best guarantee of success.” 

“ I dare say he has a much pleasanter berth here, all 
the same,” returned Terence, who did not quite relish 
the turn the talk had taken. He would have to rough 
it awfully out there for a good many years to come. ” 

“ No doubt he is far more comfortable at home,” ad- 
mitted Philip; “not but what Duff enjoys ‘roughing 
it’ more than any man I know. But what is so hard 
upon him is that he has absolutely no prospects now. 
He is working for me, not for himself, and I do not 
know whether I can ever make him any adequate 
return. Had he been able to goto Australia, he would, 
in all probability, be doing well and prospering in life ; 
as it is, his future is as uncertain as it well can be. It 
has fallen hardly upon him, Terence, as you must know 
as well as I do.” 

Terence bit the ends of his moustache, and looked 
up appealingly at his brother : 

“ I am awfidly sorry, Phil. I would make any 
amends, if I only had the power.” 

“Yes, Terence, I know you would ; but there seems 
no chance of that. Well, never mind ; we need not 
discuss the subject now. It is never a pleasant one at 
any time, and certainly need not spoil your home- 
coming. You will find a very warm welcome at the 
farm ; there has been much rejoicing at the thought of 
your return.’^ 

“ Lenore is with you still } ” 

“ Of course — where else should she be ?” 


TERENCE. 


37 

“I don’t know ; only I have fancied sometimes, with 
her clever head and independent nature, she would 
some day leave the nest, and try to use her wings a 
little. It is nearly two years since I have seen her. 
She was away when last I was here. It was most 
generous of her lending me that money, though I didn’t 
half like using it. However, I hope soon to be able 
to repay it ; and meantime my warmest thanks must 
content her.” 

“If you thank her do so in private,” advised Philip, 
with slightly contracted brow. “ Nobody knows any- 
thing of the matter but Madeline and myself ; Lenore 
does not wish it spoken of.” 

Terence laughed in his boyish way : 

“You are all very tender over my faults and failings, 
I think. I should be much less secret about them my- 
.self.” 

“ Well, Terence, we do not find the subject a pleasant 
one, and therefore, I suppose, we avoid it as far as pos- 
sible.” 

Whatever might have been the reply to this, it was 
cut ruthlessly short by the sudden descent upon them of 
Marjory, who came running down the path to meet them, 
and who flung herself upon Terence with an impetuous 
burst of welcome. 

“Terence ! you dear, darling boy! I am glad to get 
you back again. Now let me look at you. Yes, you 
are handsomer than ever — I knew you would be — you 
always are ! And I should like to know what you meant 
by leaving the dog-cart and cheating us like that — as 
though I wasn’t fifty times more anxious to see you 
again than Philip was ! You bad, dear boy ! It is nicer 
to have you home again I ” 

Terence returned Marjory’s greeting affectionately. 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


38 

He was fond of all his sisters, but perhaps Marjory was 
his favorite, because she never asked troublesome ques- 
tions or looked grave over his escapades ; and she 
was ever ready to be his devoted slave, to run about 
after him, to fuss over him, make much of him and pet 
him ; and this was just what suited Terence, who was 
accustomed to be a person of importance, and enjoyed 
attentions and consideration that would have been all 
but intolerable to many men. 

She led him triumphantly up to the house, where, 
upon the lawn, the whole of the family party was 
assembled with the exception of Duff, who was hard at 
work somewhere on the farm. Terence was warmly 
welcomed, and a pleasant confusion of happy voices and 
the noisy greeting of the dogs filled the air, and for a 
time quite drowned the murmur of the brook, and the 
other soft sounds of a summers afternoon. 

The tea-table was brought out and placed in a shady 
spot, and the party disposed themselves at will around 
it. 

Terence found it all he could do to answer all the 
eager questions showered upon him ; but he did his 
best to satisfy all, and was very happy to find himself 
in the peaceful home-circle again, and surrounded by 
admiring and loving faces. 

He was sitting between Madeline and Marjory, upon 
the rustic seat beneath the grand old yew tree at the 
bottom of the lawn ; but his eyes rested most frequently 
upon the face and form of Lenore, as she stood at the 
table dispensing the tea, and listening with a look of 
bright animation on her face to the talk that went on 
around her. The faithful Colin stood beside her, look- 
ing up at his mistress with wistful brown eyes, his 
thoughts intent upon bread and butterj and her slight, 


TERENCE. 


39 


graceful figure, in its simple white dress, stood out with 
picturesque distinctness from the background of dark 
shrubs behind. 

Terence was conscious of a feeling of pleasure and 
surprise as he looked at Lenore. 

Two years ago, when last he had seen her, she had 
been a sallow-faced, angular girl, with an interesting 
countenance, and a pair of fine, expressive eyes, but 
without any claim to what would generally be accepted 
as beauty. 

And now all this was changed. The girlish figure 
had attained a womanly grace and softness of outline ; 
it was slight, but the angles had disappeared, and there 
was a buoyancy and lightness in all its movements that 
was very pleasant to see. And the face was even more 
changed. It was no longer sallow, but the clear, 
smooth skin was somewhat olive-tinted, and the faint 
color in the cheeks was as soft as that in the heart of 
a pale blush rose. 

Terence looked and looked again, marvelling at the 
change he saw, until Lenore, catching his intent and 
almost puzzled gaze, smiled brightly and frankly across 
at him, and asked ; 

“ Well, Terence, what is it.? ” 

“I beg your pardon. Tm afraid I am rude; but I 
can’t make it out.” 

“ Make what out.? ’ 

“You. You are so changed; you are not like the 
Lenore I used to know.” 

The girl laughed. 

“Well, if it comes to that, you are a different Ter- 
ence from the one I remember.” 

“I hope time has been as kind to me, then, as it has 
to you.” 


40 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


Don't fish for compliments. Marjory has been quite 
explicit enough about your good looks. You will not 
find me encouraging your vanity.” 

“No, don’t; it would be bad for me;” yet never- 
theless Terence looked as though he would find a little 
praise from Lenore very much to his taste. 

But he was not permitted much opportunity for win- 
ning it, for Marjory was eager to take him all round 
the place, pointing out every change that had come about 
since he had last seen it, and winning promises of as- 
sistance for all the various schemes of improvement 
and alteration, which were always stirring in her busy 
brain. 

The quiet beauty and the peacefulness of all around 
were very soothing to Terence. He felt that he loved 
his home very deeply, and that he was in harmony 
with it all 

“If it were only my fate to live always here,” he 
thought to himself. ‘ ‘ what a different kind of fellow 
I should be. No wonder Philip is so steady-going and 
so virtuous. One could hardly be anything else here, 
I think.” 

“ Dora has grown graver than ever, I fancy,” he said 
by-and-by to Marjory, interrupting the flow of her con- 
stant chatter. “Is anything the matter.?” 

“ Well, no, I don’t think so ; but I am sure she is not 
happy, Terence.” 

“ Why on earth not .? ” 

“ I hardly know. Perhaps I ought not to have said 
anything ; but I fancy she is tired of the life here, and 
wants to see more of the world. It seems so odd, for 
to me this is the best kind of life possible. I wouldn’t 
leave the farm for anything.” 

“Quite right, Marjory. You always stay in that 


TERENCE. 


41 


frame of mind. The world is a bad place, and the less 
one knows of it the better. That, at least, has been my 
experience.” 

Marjory opened her eyes wonderingly. 

“But, Terence, you would not like to stay here 
always, would you .? I thought you were so fond of 
“ seeing life,” and doing as other men do.” 

“Well, Marjory, I can only say that when I come 
back again out of all the strife and turmoil, I feel as 
though I would give anything to settle down, and end 
my days in peace in the old home.” 

“Then do, Terence!” cried Marjory eagerly. “Oh, 
do ! It would be delightful to have you always here. 
Do come home and help Philip with the farm, and then 
Duff could go to Australia ; because, you know, if you 
were at home, you would not want all the money you 
do now, and there would be some for Duff.” 

Terence laughed, and stroked Marjory’s rosy cheek 
with a caressing movement : 

“I’m afraid, little sister, that such a plan as that is 
quite too Arcadian to be carried out. I am no farmer, 
you know, and should be worse than useless to Philip, 
and my small allowance would be nothing to start Duff 
in life.” 

Marjory looked disappointed : 

“ If you want to come back and live at home, I’m 
sure I don’t see why you shouldn’t. I shall ask Philip 
if you can’t. ” 

“ My dear, foolish little one, how your tongue does 
run away with you ! Haven’t you yet learned that we 
can none of us have all we want in the world, and that 
a man must go out and fight his own battle in life, and 
make his own way, however much he might like to stay 
in the pleasant shelter of home .? No, Marjory, I must 


42 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


abide by the choice I made. My life is not a bed of 
roses ; but I must battle on, and put up with the trials 
and difficulties that beset it. I should be a poor kind of 
soldier if I were to give up and run away, because all 
was not pleasure and play.” 

Marjory looked at him with fond admiration. 

A more experienced eye than hers, and one less pre- 
judiced in his favor, might have noted that Terence’s 
face showed but small signs of his having battled with 
trial or difficulty ; rather, it would have marked that he 
looked far more like one who has drunk somewhat 
deeply of the cup of pleasure, and has known far less 
of work than of play. 

But it was not to be expected that Marjory would 
detect this, and her loving admiration was much inten- 
sified by this conversation. 

She was proud and pleased to have been, as it were, 
taken into his confidence ; and that night as she and 
Lenore were preparing for bed, in small rooms adjoining 
one another, she said very earnestly to her companion : 

“ Lenore, I am sure Terence is really very brave and 
good — very much better than some of the others think 
him. I am sure he has a great deal to try him which we 
know nothing about, and that he tries very hard always 
to do what is right.” 

And Lenore answered gently : 

“ I am very glad it is so, Marjory.” 


X 



CHAPTER V. 


THE HERO AT HOME. 


ERENCE was not as a rule an early riser ; but for 



▼ some reason or other he woke betimes upon the first 
morning of his visit home. 

Perhaps it was the songs of the birds that woke him, 
or the sounds of life from the farm-yard near at hand ; 
and perhaps it was the fresh sweetness of the early 
morning that tempted him to rise and dress, and stroll 
out into the bright world without ; or perhaps it was a 
glimpse he had caught of a white dress passing out of a 
little gate below his window into the meadow beyond. 

Lenore was always early to rise, and on these sweet, 
early summer days she was often up with the lark. 
Sometimes Marjory accompanied her on her rambles, 
but rriore often Colin was her only companion, and on 
this particular morning she was so engrossed in a game 
of play in which she was indulging him, that she did 
not see Terence until he was close upon her. 

Then she stopped short, laughed, and held out her 
hand : 

“ Good morning, Terence. You are an early bird to- 
day. Have you and your bed quarrelled that you part 



44 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


company so early ? Down, Col, down ! Isn’t it a sweet 
morning ? ” 

“ It is indeed ! You see I have come out to enjoy it. 
May I join you in your walk ? ” 

Terence had never treated Lenore with quite the 
same familiarity as his brothers did. Perhaps a little 
more ceremony and courtliness was natural to him ; 
but from some cause or other the girl had never felt on 
quite the same footing with him, as with Philip and 
Duff. She was perfectly at home with him, and yet 
she never felt as though he were a brother to her ; and 
after this long interval of separation, there seemed a 
considerable distance between them. 

“ Oh, yes, you may come. I am only going down 
to the brook for watercress. Philip likes them for 
breakfast, and I generally gather some for him on fine 
mornings.” 

“ Happy Philip ! ” 

“ Don’t be silly, Terence,” said Lenore with frank 
fearlessness. “You are not at Munstead now, you 
know.” 

“ Thank goodness, no ! ” said Terence with energy. 

‘ ‘ I never want to see that place again. ” 

Lenore looked at him with a kind of grave disap- 
proval in her eyes. 

“I don’t think anybody ought ever to feel that, about 
a place in which they have lived for any length 
of time.” 

“ Why not.?” 

“ Because they would not and could not feel so, if 
they had lived as they should have lived, and done the 
work which they ought to have done.” 

“ Well, Lenore, I dare say you are right; but you 
must know as well as anyone, what a mess I have 


THE HERO A T HOME. 


45 

made of my affairs ; and you cannot wonder at my 
feeling as I do.” 

“ Terence, why do you ‘ make a mess of your affairs,' 
as you call it ? How is it you cannot learn wisdom 
by experience, and act prudently and honorably, as 
other men do ” 

“ Honorably ! ” echoed Terence quickly, with a flush 
mounting to his cheek, though his tone was light. 
“May I ask what crime I have committed that my 
honor is called in question ? It is a serious charge 
against a man and a soldier. ” 

“Men and soldiers, perhaps, have different ideas 
about honor from what we have,” answered Lenore 
steadily and fearlessly. “ But it does not seem quite 
honorable tome, first to receive so much larger a share 
of good things- than any of the other boys can possibly 
obtain, and then to deprive them of the little that should 
be theirs by extravagance, which after the first time, 
you ought to, have learned to avoid.” 

Terence pulled his moustache, and tried not very 
successfully to speak carelessly : 

“You are very severe, Lenore. I did not expect so 
uncompromising a lecture from lips that smiled so 
kindly upon me just now. But I cannot defend my- 
self, as you know but too well ; I can only throw my- 
self on your mercy, and confess that I have acted very 
wrongly. Only, Lenore, remember that when you 
speak of the way in which ‘ other men ' act, you 
know very little of the world. * Other men ' would 
think very lightly indeed of the sins that look so black 
in your eyes.” 

“I pm sorry for * other men’ then,” said Lenore 
quietly. “ I was thinking of Philip.” 


46 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“We cannot all be Philips/’ answered Terence, in a 
tone which Lenore did not quite understand. 

“No,” she said, quietly; and they walked on in 
silence to the brook. 

The stream widened out at the point they now had 
reached, and the watercress grew freely in its broad, 
shallow bed. Stepping-stones had been laid down by 
Duff to assist Lenore in her task ; and Terence stood 
upon the bank, leaning upon an old willow stump, and 
watching with interest and admiration the quick and 
graceful movements of his companion. 

The young man had something of an artist’s nature, 
and it was positive pleasure to him to watch anything 
that made an attractive picture ; and, in truth, a more 
fastidious eye than his might have looked with pleasure, 
upon the scene which met his eye — the clear water of 
the brook sparkling and dimpling in the soft sunshine, 
as it went murmuring and laughing over its pebbly bed, 
and Lenore in her white dress, with sleeves turned 
back almost to the elbows, poised daintily upon the 
flat stones, plunging her white arms quickly into the 
water, and throwing off from them each time a shower 
of sparkling drops, which fell all over Colin’s black 
coat, as he plunged, and splashed, and barked around her. 

“ Lenore,” said Terence, when she joined him again, 
her hands full of fresh green cress, “you make me 
feel as though I should like to paint a picture, with you 
and Col for my models.” 

“ Col and I are much too busy a pair ever to have 
time to give you any sittings ; and I don’t think I care 
much for men who dabble in art. If they are not great 
painters or poets, let them leave it alone. Men ought 
to be too busy to have time to be dabblers. ” 

Terence laughed : 


THE HERO AT HOME, 


47 


“ Tm afraid, Lenore, if ever you go out and see 
more of life, your ideal of what man is will receive a 
rude shock, and your feelings will be much outraged. 
You seem to entertain a very high estimate of us." 

“ Do I ? " questioned Lenore. “I did not know it. 
I suppose my ideas have been limited by what I have 
seen. Philip and Duff are the only men I know. I’hey 
are always busy and active, and are generous and un- 
selfish, and honorable in everything. I did not know 
such qualities were so rare. As you say, perhaps I 
shall learn wisdom by experience." 

Terence gave her a quick, searching look : 

“Are you something of a cynic, Lenore, or do you 
speak in all simplicity ? " 

“ I am not sure that I know what a cynic is, Ter- 
ence ; and what I say is just what I mean, neither 
more nor less." 

Terence was silent, and his companion also, for 
awhile ; but after a pause he spoke again : 

“Lenore, you must be thinking me very ungrateful 
all this while ; but Philip said I was not to name it be- 
fore others ; but will you let me take this opportunity 
of thanking you for your most generous and timely 
help, which enabled me to leave Munstead with a 
mind at ease, and to feel that I could begin life afresh 
in a new place } I am most grateful to you, Lenore — 
more so than I can express. " 

The girPs face flushed a little, and her lip curled with 
an involuntary movement which Terence did not see. 

“ Please say no more about it. The matter had now 
better be forgotten. I wish to hear no more of it." 

“I will respect your wishes, Lenore — at least, until 
I have the chance of repaying you ; which may, I 
trust, be soon. " 


48 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ Pay the money, then, to Philip, not to me,” she 
said hastily. “ It is his, not mine.” 

“I thought he told me you had sent it — I know it 
was you. What do you mean, Lenore } ” 

“ I mean what I say.. I had saved it; but it was 
really his ; and if ever you have a chance of paying it 
back, Terence, pay it to Philip. I don’t want to see it 
again.” 

“Well, Lenore, your will is law to me. I will do 
as you say.” 

, Again Lenore’s lip curled slightly : 

“ Tin afraid, Terence, that no will is law to you but 
your own.” 

“What do you mean .? ’’ 

“You know quite well what I mean. I mean that, 
if you really cared for anything but your own pleasure, 
you would not act as you do.” 

Terence cast a humble and appealing glance at her, 
and answered sadly : 

“ Lenore, I see you will not spare me ; and I do not 
wonder at it, for I do not deserve to be spared. I have 
been careless, selfish, reckless — what you will. But do 
not accuse 'me of heartlessness, for indeed I do not 
deserve the charge. My love to all here has never 
cooled and never wavered.” 

“ I believe you mean what you say, and think it too, 
Terence,” answered Lenore more gently ; “but it 
seems a poor kind of love to me, if it cannot help you 
to resist temptation.” 

“Lenore, I do resist — do struggle,” said Terence 
eagerly. “ I have withstood a good deal ; but I have 
not the strength and courage of some men ; I find it 
horribly hard to say ‘no.’ You do not know how 
hard a time I have in the Army. It seems the soldier’s 


THE HERO A T HOME. 


49 

motto, ‘Do in Rome as R-ome does,' and I cannot 
bear sneers and ridicule. " 

“That seems to me a very poor kind of motto for 
a soldier," answered Lenore gravely. “ I remember 
a soldier who lived up to a much better one than 
that. " 

“What was his, then?” asked Terence, glancing 
with interest into the serious, thoughtful face of his com- 
panion. 

“‘Trust in God, and keep your powder dry,' " an- 
swered Lenore with fearless emphasis. 

Something in the words, and the tone and the look 
upon the girl's face, touched the right chord and aroused 
all the best side of Terence's nature : 

“ Lenore, he said earnestly, “you make me more 
ashamed of myself than ever I was before. You make 
me feel as I used to do when I was a child, and said 
my prayers at our mother's knee, and knew nothing of 
evil, and was confident that I should never give her, or 
anyone I loved, one hour's anxiety on my account. 
Oh, Lenore, if I could only recall those days ! If I 
could only live my life over again, how differently I 
would act ! ” 

“ Yes," answered Lenore, “we might all of us say 
that ; but we never shall have the chance, and perhaps 
it is better that we do not. ‘Ifs' are poor kind of 
things, Terence, and so are lamentations over the past. 
It is the present and the future about which we must 
make our resolves. The past is not our own the 
future is. If you are so confident that you would live 
your life differently had you to live it over again, why 
not live it differently now ? Why not be brave enough, 
and be man enough, to show that you can fight against 
your weaknesses and conquer yourself? Why not show 

4 


I 


50 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

us all thi .t you mean what you say, when you tell us of 
your sor ow and promise amendment 

“I wi. 1, Lenore, I will,” answered Terence, a good 
deal moi ed. “It is what I have longed to do times 
without I lumber ; but I seemed so much alone in the 
world tbit I despaired of success. I am weak, and I 
want help, Lenore; will you help me.?” 

“It IS not my help, Terence, that you want,” answered 
Lenore quietly ; and the emphasis on the pronoun 
made him ask quickly : 

‘ ‘ Whose, then .? ” 

“God's,” answered the girl, speaking steadily and 
resolutely. “ It is of no use your trying to do without 
that, Terence. You will only make resolves to break 
them, and fail more and more lamentably each time. 
If you try to conquer yourself by your own strength, 
and not by God’s help, you will never do it — never ! 
You must know by this time, without any telling, how 
such attempts always end.” 

“I do indeed,” answered Terence earnestly. “I 
have made miserable failures enough to know. Lenore, 

I believe you are right — I know you are right ; but 
what am I to do .? I seem to have lost all hold of the 
old, childish faith that I used to love. God is but a 
name to me — not a reality. I no more know how to 
seek Him than an untaught heathen does. I have cast 
away and ignored all the truths that once I held, and 
now everything looks dark and confused. I have for- 
saken God, and now He has forsaken me.” 

“No, Terence,” said Lenore, “that is not true, as 
you will find if you will but turn to Him again.” 

“ I would if I could ; but I do not know how, I am 
ashamed — I cannot tell what I believe and what I do 


THE HERO A T HOME, 


51 

not. Do not trouble your sweet soul over me, Lenore. 
I am not worth the saving." 

“Terence," was the grave reply, “you should not 
speak so — you do not know what you are saying." 

“Perhaps not — I cannot tell — I feel sometimes like 
an outcast and a reprobate amongst you all. Lenore, 
I believe you are the only one who can understand 
and help me. Will you be my guardian angel .? Will 
you teach me, and help me, to be like yourself.?" 

He stopped short and faced her as he said this, and 
she knew by his voice and by his face that he was not 
a little moved. • 

“ Terence, she said gently, “I can be no one’s 
guardian angel, and I wish to teach no one to be like 
myself ; but if I can do anything to help you to regain 
what you say you have lost, you know that I will." 

“You will, Lenore.? "he repeated eagerly. “You 
will do all you can for me ? I thank you for that assur- 
ance. Give me your hand, Lenore, and promise you 
will always be my friend, and will always give me 
your help." 

She placed her hand within his, and looked up 
gravely into his face, a little surprised by his vehe- 
mence. 

“ I promise, Terence," she said simply. 

“Always, you know, Lenore," he went on in the 
same rapid way. “I cannot ever do without it, if I 
have once learned to lean on you. You will not grow 
tired of me, you will not throw me off.? " 

She did not guess the thoughts that were rising 
within him, as he stood looking down upon her fair 
young face. She met his earnest gaze without faltering 
and without confusion. 

“No, Terence, I will not throw you off. I will do 


52 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


as much as I can to help you — as much as our lives will 
permit j but first of all I must teach you that you must 
not lean on me, you must not put your faith in me. If 
you do, you will never learn the lessons that you say 
you wish to do.'’ 

“You shall teach me anything and everything you 
wish. What you say will be gospel truth to me. I be- 
lieve you could make of me what you would, Lenore,” 
said Terence fervently; “for I know you will teach 
me nothing but what is true and pure and lovely, like 
yourself. ” 

Lenore made* no answer, and they walked on again 
in silence. She did not like his last speech. It seemed 
to her, she hardly knew why, as though Terence could 
never rise to a high standpoint, and love right for its 
' own sake ; as though he must always have an induce- 
ment, and act always upon impulse, not upon steady 
determination. But she tried to keep down all sus- 
picions as to his sincerity, and to make due allowance for 
the temperament which, perhaps, made earnest purpose 
more difficult to him than it would be to another. 

“I am afraid I am inclined tojudge Terence hardly,” 
she said to herself, “because of the trouble and anxiety 
he gives to Philip, and because of the light way in which 
he treats the generous sacrifice he allowed Duff to make 
for him. They say the young are always hard, and 
perhaps I am so, without meaning to be. I would give 
anything to help to steady Terence and to relieve 
Philip’s anxiety ; but I do not feel as though I could ever 
trust and like him as I do the other two.” 

Terence noted the gravity of his companion’s face ; 
but he little guessed her thoughts. He was used to 
taking liking and admiration as his due, and never im- 
agined any one could withhold them from him. He 


THE HERO A T HOMe. 


53 

smiled to see her pensive look, and allowed his thoughts 
to flow on in a very pleasant channel. 

The conversation pursued so earnestly had rather de- 
layed the two in their ramble, and breakfast had already 
begun when they entered the room. 

Terence s face was bright and hopeful, Lenore’s serious 
and dreamy ; and under cover of the noisy greetings 
which hailed their entrance, Philip and Madeline ex- 
changed meaning glances ; and his face was a little 
clouded, and his manner somewhat abstracted for the 
remainder of the meal. 

Nobody else, however, seemed to think anything wor- 
thy of remark, except Terence’s early rising. The break- 
fast was a merry, noisy meal, and was soon over, for 
the morning hours were precious, and no one in that 
busy household had time for any luxurious idling. 

Lenore went off to the poultry yard to look after the 
young ducks and chickens, which were always her 
special care. Terence would have liked to be her com- 
panion still ; but he was claimed by Marjory to help 
her in the garden, where her energies found more than 
full scope, and in which she always required as much 
extra help as could be obtained. 

Terence was in gay spirits — with him a rebound 
after any serious thought was inevitable — and the gar- 
den resounded with merry laughter and happy voices. 
Marjory was more and more confirmed in her de- 
votion to Terence, aird was quite convinced that he 
was the cleverest and handsomest brother that ever 
lived. 

The house was very gay now that Terence was 
home. He seemed to carry about with him an atmos- 
phere of brightness that everyone was bound to enjoy. 
He wns active without ever seeming to be so, and 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


54 

would join Philip half a dozen times a day to have a 
few minutes’ chat, and see what was going on. He 
chaffed the farm laborers, and left them with grinning 
faces ; he played with the children, and made them 
happy with half-pence. He prescribed for a sick horse, 
mended a broken toy, or repaired an injured fence with 
equal readiness and facility. He worked in Marjory’s 
garden, framed Dora’s drawings, helped Madeline to 
make up the weekly books, and, in fact, made himself 
generally useful and particularly agreeable ; until the 
whole household agreed that it certainly was a very 
pleasant thing to have Terence at home, and Duff teased 
Marjory not a little about her devotion to her hero. 

But, amid all his varied occupations, Terence seldom 
seemed to loose sight of Lenore, and the impressions 
he had received at first only deepened with time. When 
she was present his eyes were seldom off her ; when 
she was absent his thoughts were nearly always about 
her. Terence had many times before believed himself 
to be “in love” ; but, as he told himself fifty times a 
day, no woman had ever as yet so won his heart and 
gained so great an ascendancy over him as had 
Lenore. 

By the end of the third day of his brief sojourn at 
home, his mind was made up. Lenore should be his 
wife, and he would win her plighted troth before he 
left to resume his “life of toil.” 

That Lenore would fail to fall into this arrangement 
was an idea that never seriously entered in to his 
thoughts. 

Every morning he joined her in her early walk ; and 
although he did not openly allude to the subject of their 
first inferyiew, he gave Lenore to understand that his 
wishes feelings were unehanged, and that he 


THE HERO A T HOME, 


55 


claimed the right to seek her out and make a ti iend and 
confidante of her, as a natural sequence of the compact 
they had made. 

Lenore was puzzled by Terence’s manner ; but she 
did not trouble herself much to discover why he was so 
tender and chivalrous in his bearing towards her. It 
bored her a little, and made her feel a little impatient 
and disdainful ; but she kept her feelings to herself, for 
she had promised to help and befriend Terence, and 
who could tell, wkh a volatile nature like his, at what 
morpent an opportunity would occur, for giving him 
the counsel he said he so much needed and for which 
he was so eager } 

So they walked together in the early morning, and 
sometimes in the dewy eventide ; and Terence s face 
would be full of tender light, whilst Philip’s would 
sometimes cloud over with a look of pain, which often 
left its shadow behind when it had passed away, and 
troubled 'the heart of Lenore not a littl^. 

“ Marjory,” said Duff one evening, “don’t you think 
it^is a case t ” 

“ What? ” asked Marjory, opening her eyes wide. 

“Terence and Lenore.” 

“Oh, Duff! ” 

“Well, I don’t know ; why not ? ” 

“Oh, Duff, I don’t want Terence to marry — not even 
Lenore. I don’t think there’s anybody in the world 
^ood enough for him.” 

Duff laughed. 

“ Don’t you think so too ? 

“Well, if I might be permitted to express an opinion, 
it would be this, that if things are to be so, Terence 
.will have got a long way the best of the bargain," 


56 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

Marjory stared, and then laughed derisively : 

“Oh, Duff! you are so ridiculous! You never do 
get hold of a sensible idea ! But I wonder if it is so.” 
“Time will show,” was the oracular response. 





CHAPTER VI. 

BROTHERS. 

** ^^'E'LL, Terence/' said Philip, “four days out of 
* * your ten have gone by, and we have not yet 
had any serious conversation. Shall we say now the 
things that have to be said, and feel that the unpleasing 
subject is off our minds ? ” 

“ By all means," answered Terence readily. “You 
have been wonderfully forbearing to have allowed me 
to escape all this while without the roasting that I well 
deserve for all my sins. 

“I wish, Terence," answered Philip, though he 
could not but smile, “ that the ‘ roasting,' as you are 
pleased to call it, troubled you half 'as much as it 
troubles me. I know which of us dreads it the most, 
and so do you." 

Terence laughed in his boyish fashion. 

“ Well, Phil, if it is so, it all comes from your being 
so much too kind to me. I cannot be filled with the 
dread which your displeasure ought to inspire. You 
have always tried to spare the rod as far as possible, 
and now it seems as though the child were spoilt. But, 
seriously, Phil, I am very sorry fo^' my past careless- 





58 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

ness, and I will pass my word of honor it shall not 
occur again.” 

It was Sunday afternoon, and as Sunday was Philip’s 
only leisure day during the week, he and Terence had 
tafen advantage of it to enjoy together a stroll in the 
woods. They both knew that it was necessary they 
should come to some understanding in regard to many 
things, and Terence had something upon his mind 
which he was anxious to discuss with Philip. It was 
almost a necessity of his nature that he should confide 
to another any hopes or fears which were much in his 
thoughts. 

“Terence,” said Philip kindly, “I know you are 
sorry, and I know you mean what you say w’hen you 
promise never to get into trouble any more ; but you 
must remember how many times you have said the 
same thing before.” 

“Yes, Phil, I do remember,” said Terence. “I don’t 
know how it is I get into these scrapes. No man could 
be more anxious than I am to keep right, and yet things 
always seem to combine against me. I’m a most un- 
lucky beggar. Sometimes I wish I’d never been born.” 

Terence’s bright face did not look as though its owner 
could have been often troubled by any such gloomy 
thoughts ; but Philip was not over critical where his 
well-loved brother was concerned, and did not listen 
to a remark of this kind with the fine sense of incredul- 
ity with which Lenore would have heard it. 

“Yes, Terence,” he said, “I know you are placed 
in a somewhat difficult position, and that it is not easy 
for you to keep within the allowance I am able to make 
you ; but what I have to say to you is this — I really 
cannot give you more, and I cannot in future come to 
YQ\]r M if you get into difficulties, Yqu must km} 


BROTHERS. 


59 

care and economy, for I have done all that I can, and 
more perhaps than I ought, for you, and it wdll be im- 
possible to do more. It may seem a hard thing to say, 
but I must say it. I cannot rob the other boys as — 
well, as Duff robbed himse’f for the family honor. 
Hector must be educated for something — the Indian 
Civil Service is what he has set his heart on — and Archie 
comes not far behind him. You take care, Terence, 
or I do not know what will become of you, for it will 
be absolutely impossible for me to help you any more. 
You must see the justice of this decision ; and I am 
sure you will not wish all the boys to suffer for your 
sake. 

“ Of course not, Phil. I wouldn’t rob them for any- 
thing ; only it is hard lines to have been brought up to 
the Army, and then to have no chance of enjoying 
one’s life there.” 

‘■It may be hard on you, perhaps ; and if our father 
could have foreseen his early death and the succession 
of bad seasons which we have had, he might have 
overruled your wish for a soldier s life, and arranged 
your future differently. But we have nothing to do 
with ifs. We have to deal with things as they are ; 
and I cannot think that all enjoyment will pass out of 
your life, because you cannot indulge in lavish expendi- 
ture. You have enough for all your needs, and I think 
you should be able to be content. To me, yours looks 
a pleasant life enough — so free from care and anxiety, 
and with so small a weight of responsibility resting 
upon you.” 

“From your point of view, I dare say it does seem 
so ; but then, remember that you have never tried the 
life.” 

No j that is true enoug^h,” 


6o 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“And the difficulties and temptations are very great 
— greater than you would believe.” 

“ Very likely.” 

“And you know how easily I am led.” 

“ Ah ! Terence, that is just it. Why do you let your- 
self be so easily led.?” 

“It is my nature, I suppose.” 

“But nature can be conquered, Terence.” 

“It would need a very strong power to conquer 
mine, I am afraid.” 

“Yes, no doubt ; but there is a Power strong enough, 
if you would but seek it.” 

Terence’s face had grown grave and tender. Philip 
was struck by its expression, and wondered what had 
caused it, and what was moving his brother’s mind. 

“Yes, Phil, I believe there is — I believe there is a 
power strong enough to help me to resist temptation, 
and to make another man of me ; and, what is more, I 
believe that I have'^found it and won it.” 

“Terence, I am glad,” answered Philip with much 
subdued feeling. “lam more thankful than I can 
say. It is what I have been hoping and trusting would 
come to you for many long years.” 

“You had thought it, too.? — you had wished it.?” 
questioned Terence eagerly. “I am glad of that, Phil, 
though, of course, I knew I was sure of your sympathy 
and good-will.” 

Philip lifted his head with a quick glance of wonder 
and perplexity ; but Terence, intent upon his own 
thoughts, went on unheeding : 

“You know, Phil, I have always been fond of her. 
Phil, I believe I shall be another man when I have her 
to think for as well as myself ; when her sweet influ- 
ence is upon me, and any misdeed of mine will cause 


BROTHERS. 6 1 

grief and pain to her. It will be the saving of me, I 
do firmly believe — the love of Lenore." 

A quick spasm of pain had passed over Philip's face 
when Terence first began his speech ; but it died slowly 
away, and at the close he looked quiet and kindly as 
was his wont, although he was a little pale, and his 
eyes had not quite their usual serenity of expression. 

When he spoke his voice was steady and betrayed 
no unusual emotion : 

“ Have you spoken yet to Lenore ? " 

“ Not exactly — not in set words ; but yet I think we 
understand each other." 

“She has given you reason to think so ? ” 

“I think so. She promised me her help, promised 
to lead me to better and higher things, promised it for 
the future as well as for the present, and would she 
have done so if she had not loved me } " 

“She may be offering you a sister’s love, Terence, 
not a wife’s." 

“I think not," answered Terence quickly. “ I do 
not think she looks upon me as a brother. You and 
Duff have always treated her as a sister ; it is easy'to 
see by the way in which she speaks of you both that it 
is a sister’s love she bears to you. But not so with 
me. I have never attempted to fill a brother’s place.. 
Our friendship has been of a different kind. And since 
my return home this time, I must have made it plain 
with what feelings I regard her." 

“ Lenore is very simple-minded," said Philip. “ She 
may not have understood as much of your meaning as 
you think." 

Philip felt like one who is trying for a moment to 
ward off the inevitable,i to dally with a fatal truth and 
make as though he did not believe. 


62 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


“ Lenore is pure and sweet and trustful — true; but 
she is still a woman, and women are never backward 
to know when love is being proffered them.” 

Something in the tone jarred upon Philip, and he 
made no reply. 

“ Besides,” went on Terence, “her conduct speaks 
for itself. Was it not she who came forward to help 
me out of my difficulties.!^ Why should she do that, if 
she had no special interest in me } And then, when I 
would have thanked her, she stopped my mouth, and 
would not let me tell my gratitude ; and when I spoke 
of repayment, she said she would never receive it back, 
and grew vehement over the protest. Does not all this 
show how glad and eager she is to help me, how 
identical in her mind are our interests, and how little 
she wishes to be released from the generous sacrifice 
she has made on my behalf.? ” 

Philip’s face still showed some dissatisfaction. PI is 
brother’s light tone still jarred upon him. Womanhood 
to him was something sacred, almost too sacred to be 
carelessly named; and Terence was running on in a 
strain which did violence to all his instincts of rever- 
ence and of reserve. 

“ You may be right, Terence,” he said slowly. “ At 
least, you ought to be a better judge than I.” 

“Yes, Phil ; your honest, brotherly eyes would not 
be likely to take in all the sweet, subtle changes which 
her face expresses, which, when we are alone together, 
tell so very much to me. I do not think I can be mis- 
taken. Say you wish me joy, Phil — say I have your 
good-will.” ^ 

“ You know that, Terence, without any word from 
me,” answered Philip, with feeling. “ I do wish you 
joy with all my heart.” 


BROTHERS, 63 

Thanks; I knew I was sure of you. And now, 
promise me one more favor, Phil.” 

“ What is that? ” 

“That if Lenore, in her sisterly fashion, comes to 
you for advice — if her mind is not quite so ready as I 
think — that you will be my advocate, and plead my 
cause with her.” 

“You must be your own advocate, Terence; you 
must plead your own cause.” 

“I will. I have no fears ; but in case of hesitation 
you will guide her choice ? ” 

“No, Terence, her own heart must guide her.” 

Terence's face clouded over for a moment. It was 
not that he believed he should require his brother's 
mediation, but he did not like to be denied anything 
upon which he had set his fancy ; and he did not think 
Philip ought to refuse him so small a service. 

“I did'not think you would ever have refused me 
your help, Phil,” he said in a half-pathetic, half-injured 
way. 

“ Nor would I, Terence, on any other matter.” 

“ Nothing else could be so important to me as this.” 

“I know ; that is the very reason.” 

“And Lenore thinks so much of your opinion and of 
your judgment.” 

“Terence, I cannot give counsel in this matter, even 
should Lenore ask it.” 

“ It would be the saving of me, Phil,” said Terence. 
“ Let me once feel I had her to live for, I should never 
fall again.” 

“I have no doubt it would be a powerful incentive, 
and I wish you all success.” 

“You think she has power to make me happy ? ” 

“Ido indeed ! ” 


64 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“And yet you will not help me as I ask?'' 

“No." 

“ Will you tell me why not? " 

“Yes, Terence, I will. I do not feel assured that 
you will make her happy." 

Terence looked dumbfounded. This was quite a 
new idea to him. He had always flattered himself that 
his future wife would be a most happy and fortunate 
woman. 

However, he could not explain this to Philip, and 
only began rather feebly : 

“But if she loves me " 

“If she loves you, she will not come to me for ad- 
vice. If she loves you little enough to hesitate, I can 
say nothing. Love will cover a multitude of sins ; love 
will turn all to gold that it touches ; but without love, 
Terence, marriage can be neither holy nor happy, and 
least of all are you fitted to make the happiness of a 
wife who does not fully love and trust you." 

Terence pulled his moustache, and wished to good- 
ness Philip would not be so solemn and so uncompro- 
mising. He liked to look at everything through the 
tender haze of uncertainty and romance, not in the 
prosaic light of everyday experience. Philip’s tone and 
words destroyed the illusion, and brought everything 
down to the dull level of his own unaspiring fancies. 
Terence thought the interview had better come to a 
close. 

“Well, Phil, I am sorry you have so low an opinion 
of me — not but what I fully deserve it ; but I thank you 
with all my heart for your patience in hearing me and 
for your brotherly sympathy and good-will. I trust 
tLat the future will prove to you that a woman’s love 


BROTHERS. 6 ^ 

can make a new man of me, and that my love will be 
enough to make Lenore happy.” 

And then they shook hands warmly, and each went 
his own way to think over what had passed. 

“Well, Philip.?” said a voice behind him. “ You 
have been wandering round and round this field for an 
hour and a half, to my certain knowledge. I should 
like to know what evil deed you are plotting, that you 
are so deeply engrossed. 

Philip started, and passed his hand across his brow. 
He had had no idea of the flight of time. He had been 
deep in thought — wrestling manfully with feelings 
which he was determined to subdue, and fighting against 
the sense of weary depression, akin to despair, which 
seemed in danger of mastering him. 

When Duff caught sight of his brother’s face, he 
dropped his bantering tone, and asked quickly : 

“ Is anything the matter .? ” 

“No — nothing, thanks — why?” 

“You look as though something was bothering 
you. ” 

“Do I? Well, talking and thinking of the future 
makes one rather anxious sometimes. I have been 
having some talk with Terence.” 

“Ah!” answered Duff, as though that admission 
threw considerable light on the subject. 

“ He has been telling me his intentions.” 

“Indeed I” 

“ He wishes to marry Lenore.” 

“So I imagined.” 

“Did you? Why so?” 

“From the way he has been mooning round after 
her these past days. But I should say it’s quite another 
question whether Lenore wants to marry him.” 

5 


66 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Terence believes he has her love.” 

“I should imagine that Terence would think that of 
most women.” 

“You are severe, Duff.” 

“Well, I don’t suppose I am far out.” 

“ Have you any reason for thinking that Lenore will 
refuse him ? ” 

“I never said I thought Lenore would refuse him. 
There is very little she would not do for an Egremont, 
and Terence has a curious knack of getting his own 
way. What I say is, that I doubt if Lenore wishes to 
marry him.” 

“She shall not sacrifice herself!” cried Philip with 
sudden vehemence. 

“From what I have seen of Lenore,” remarked Duff, 
with slow deliberation, “ I should imagine she is just 
the kind of woman who would sacrifice herself from 
motives of gratitude, or a sense of duty. She may, of 
course, draw the line at marriage — marriage is an un- 
compromising kind of arrangement.” 

“ It cannot be allowed,” cried Philip. 

“Who is to stop it ?” questioned Duff. “Who is to 
know.? She will take precious good care we none of 
us find out, if it is so. ” 

Philip gave a weary sigh. 

“Phil, old man, cheer up! ” said Duff, putting his 
arm lightly across his brother’s shoulders — a demonstra- 
tion of affectionate feeling somewhat rare with matter- 
of-fact Duff. “ Don’t you be low about it. It’s one 
thing to be engaged, or to play at being engaged — it’s 
quite another to be married. Terence has never been 
engaged as yet. Mark my word, he will never marry 
the first woman he pledges himself to. If he engages 


BROTHERS. 


67 

himself to Lenore this week, I’ll bet you anything you 
like he’ll never marry her ! ” and Duff went swinging 
away across the fields again, leaving Philip decidedly 
surprised and perplexed. 




- CHAPTER VII. 

BY THE MERE. 

‘‘ 4 ENORE, are you very busy?” 

“No, not particularly.” 

“Can you come out a little while? It is such a 
lovely evening. ” 

Lenore looked up from Pier writing, saw how cloud- 
less was the sky, how golden the sunlight, how tender 
and soft and summer-like the beautiful world without, 
and rose, smiling an assent. 

“ It does seem a shame to be indoors in such weather 
as this. Yes, Col, you may come too, you patient, 
faithful old fellow. Where shall we go, Terence ? We 
have more than an hour before supper-time.” 

“ Will you come down to the Mere ? I have not been 
there yet, and it is so beautiful there. ” 

“It will look lovely on an evening like this. Yes, 
Terence, we will go there.” 

“So, in the soft, mellow light of evening, Lenore 
and Terence set forth, and quickly reached the beauti- 
ful and secluded spot for which they were bound. 

As Lenore had foreseen, it looked peculiarly lovely 
at an hour like this. The still waters lay like a sheet 




BY THE MERE, 


69 

of gold and opal glass under the cloudless sky. The 
trees that fringed its margin, and were reflected in their 
every detail in the shining mirror beneath, wore all the 
fresh loveliness of early summer. The ground was 
purple with masses of bluebells, which seemed almost 
to give their color to the tree-trunks and to the under- 
wood amid which they nestled, and filled the air with 
a kind of shimmering haze. All was very still and very 
peaceful. A few birds were'' singing their last songs, 
before the twilight should come down to silence them ; 
others were twittering sleepily to one another from their 
leafy hiding-places. The harsh and hoarse cry of the 
water-fowl broke from time to time the increasing 
silence, and the gentle ripple of the water among the 
reeds, when a soft breath of wind played upon it, made 
a dreamy and delicious music. 

“Isn’t it perfect.?” said Lenore ; and she sat down 
upon a fallen tree to look about her, and a tender smile 
played over her face. 

Terence leaned against a neighboring tree-trunk, and 
looked at her. 

“ Perfect indeed ! ” he echoed, and wished that she 
would pay less heed to the surroundings, and more to 
him. 

“Lenore,” he said by-and-by. 

“ Yes, Terence! she answered, waking out of a 
reverie in which he had no part. 

“ Do you know why 1 have asked you to come out 
here .? ” 

“ I did not know you had any special reason.” 

“Yes, but I had. Have you no idea what it can 
be .? ” 

He expected to see her eyes drop, whilst the color 
rose in her cheeks and her voice faltered in sweet com 


LENORE ANNAXDALE. 


70 

fusion ; but, on the contrary, her eyes met his frankly, 
and she answered with a smile : 

“ Not the very least in the world.” 

This was disconcerting and disappointing, yet Ter^ 
ence would not be baffled. He had come out with a 
definite purpose, and he did not intend to return until 
his object was accomplished. His musical voice be- 
came more low and tender ; his dark, expressive eyes 
fixed themselves earnestly upon her : 

“I came here, Lenore, to ask you a question.” 

But Lenore was not looking at him, nor thinking very 
much of him, and her response came absently from her 
lips : 

“ To ask a question, Terence ; why could you not ask 
it at home ? ” 

“ Because, Lenore, I wanted to be secure from inter- 
ruption ; I wanted to be sure that you were mine and 
mine only, whilst I ask my question and receive your 
answer.” 

Lenore was aroused now, by his voice and manner, 
and a vague dismay took hold of her ; but she gave no 
outward sign of it. 

Terence would have liked to lead gently and tenderly 
up to the momentous question — to have made eloquent 
speeches and whispered soft flatteries into her ear — to 
have played the suppliant lover with all the grace and 
skill of his nature ; but there was something in the 
glance of Lenore’s wide open eyes, something in the 
attitude of the slight, erect figure, which warned him 
that he would not be patiently heard — that he must 
speak out and come to the point quickly. 

“Lenore,” he said, “I want to tell you that I love 
you.” 


BV THE MERE. 


71 

She made no answer, and gave no sign of feeling — 
only sat very still and looked at him. 

“ Lenore/' he said once more, “ I love you. I have 
brought you here to tell you, if I can, how much I love 
you — to ask you if it is possible that you can return my 
love. My future is in your hands : you can do with 
me what you will. If you will grant me your love, 
and give me the right to watch over you and guard 
you, you will make of me a happy and, I trust, a good 
man. If you refuse ” 

“Terence,’' interrupted Lenore quietly, “do not use 
threats, and do not say what ought not to be true, and 
which I hope may not be true.” 

The man stopped short, and looked at her with dis- 
may and apprehension. Could it be possible that she 
meant to refuse him ? 

“ Lenore,” he said earnestly, and with a voice full of 
feeling, “ I will say nothing, if you bid me be silent, 
and yet I must speak — I cannot go without an answer 
— tell me, can you not love me a little .? ” 

Lenore was some seconds before she answered, and 
then her words came slowly and deliberately : 

“ I do not know, Terence.” 

He was distinctly troubled and disquieted ; but the 
very fact of her reluctance urged him to press his peti- 
tion with more vehemence. He had been in earnest 
from the first, but now he was tenfold more determined. 
He felt that to win Lenore was the one and only object 
of his life. 

“ You cannot mean to cast me off ! ” he cried passion- 
ately. “You will not tell me that I am nothing to you 
— that you have no love or pity for me } ” 

“ No, Terence,” answered Lenore gently, “I did not 
say that exactly. I think — I think I have some love 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


foY you ; but it is not the kind of love which you ask 
from me." 

“But that love will follow, that love will come!" 
cried Terence, with earnest pleading in his tone. “I 
have surprised you — startled you. You have not been 
thinking and dreaming as I have done during these 
past happy days. The veil has not been lifted from 
your heart as it has been from mine ; and you do not 
know what answer to make to me. But, oh 1 Lenore, 
have compassion — do not drive me to despair. My love 
is so deep, so tender, it must in time win yours. You 
are not hard nor cold. Give me time, and let me try to 
win you. They say love begets love, and if it is so, 
you must surely learn to love me in time." 

His face was pale and very earnest ; his voice 
trembled with feeling. ' Lenore had not much belief in 
Terence's protests as a rule ; but this evening she could 
not doubt his sincerity. He was desperately in earnest, 
and meant to make a hard fight. 

She could give him compassion, if she could give 
him nothing else, and so, when she spoke again, the 
very tone of her voice gave him hope : 

“Yes, Terence, you have surprised me very much. 
When we last met, you had no such thoughts, and four 
days is such a short time in which to learn the kind of 
love you speak of" 

“Love is like eternity, not time!" cried Terence 
with sudden fervent eloquence ; “it cannot be measured 
by days and hours." 

“No,” answered Lenore, a Very different expression 
stealing into her eyes, “ that is true enough, Terence." 

He was encouraged to proceed : 

“I think I loved you that first evening, Lenore. I 
have not needed four days to teach me love for you." 


BY THE MERE. 


73 

But, Terence, I have not learned to love you in four 
days,'" answered Lenore, looking him full in the face, 
“ and I cannot say the words you wish me to say. I 
can make no promise.” 

‘ ‘ Only the promise you have already made, ” rejoined 
Terence humbly, “to be my teacher and friend, and 
to lead me to higher and holier things.” 

Lenore looked earnestly at him. 

“ Terence,” she said, “ are you in earnest when you 
talk like that Do you really mean what you say ? 
Sometimes I have thought that you cannot really care 
for those things which are so precious to us ; or that 
you only think of them by chance, and only wish to 
strive after them when the impulse moves you. Im- 
pulse after what is right is very little good, Terence ; 
earnest conviction first, and earnest effort afterwards, 
are the only things that will help you.” 

When Lenore spoke upon subjects like this, there 
was none of the timid shrinking and shy hesitation in 
her voice and manner which so often hinder others 
from making their meaning clear. To her, religion 
was such an intense reality that she saw no reason to 
hesitate in speaking of it. 

Terence felt this, and it inspired him with respect 
and wonder, and with a feeling akin to envy. He had 
not quite forgotten the teaching of his childhood and 
his youth. His mothers dying words of prayerful 
entreaty often haunted him with sad persistence; and 
many and many a time did he wish and long to be able 
to regain the childlike trust that she had taught him, 
and which once had been his own. He was not all 
bad — this gay, careless, thoughtless young man; and 
he had still many honest regrets for his past follies, 
many earnest longings after better things ; and the 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


74 

high ideals and noble aspirations of his inexperienced 
youth had not been quite shattered, even by the evil 
lessons he had learnt since he had passed out into the 
great world which lay around his peaceful home. 

Terence, always susceptible of influence, with his 
love for Lenore growing every moment more and more 
strong within him, felt he could do much and would 
sacrifice anything if only he might win her. 

“ Lenore,” he said humbly and earnestly, “ teach me 
what to do and what to believe. Teach me the beauti- 
ful old faith that I have lost. Under your influence, 
impulse will soon become honest conviction ; and con- 
viction will lead to continuous effort. I do indeed wish 
to abandon my old courses, to become a different man. 
I feel like one who has been driven about by tempests, 
without a rudder to guide my course, or an anchor to 
hold by when I longed to stop. If you would but give 
me your love, that would be my rudder, and by it I 
should learn to guide my life in accordance with your 
sweet teaching ; and you would teach me where and 
how to win back the anchor that I have lost — the anchor 
of trust in God. Oh, Lenore, do not cast me off; do 
not deny me that help which alone, as it seems to me, 
can save me from shipwreck.” 

Lenore sat still and silent; but she was not unmoved 
by this appeal. Her fine instincts told her that Terence 
was in earnest in what he said, that it was not a set 
speech, but the outcome of real and genuine feeling. 
She was moved, and she showed by her face that she 
was relenting somewhat. 

“Terence,” she said, “I am ready to help you ; I 
wish to help you. I have told you so before. But is 
there no other way Can you not accept a sister s love } 
Can you not let me be a sister and a friend .? Why 


BY THE MERE. 


75 

should you wish me to offer that which is not mine to 
give — a love which is not yours yet, and which, as I 
think now', never can be.” 

Lenore sat looking straight before her, her hands 
pressed ^closely together. She longed to refuse utterly 
and unequivocally wdiat Terence asked, and yet she 
feared to do so, lest he should grow utterly careless and 
reckless, just wdien he seemed inclined to turn towards 
higher and holier things. She despised the w^eakness 
of the man w'ho could be thus tossed about by the 
weaves of chance, who could pin his faith to a human 
love, and rise or fall by it. But he was thus constituted, 
and she must look at things as they w'^ere, not as they 
ought to be. She was not one wdio could easily say, 
“Am I my brothers keeper .? ” and so dismiss the ques- 
tion. Hers wms a nature wTich would far sooner ask, 
“Should not I sacrifice myself to save a fellow-creature, 
if I can do it without w'rong .? ” 

So she sat still in doubt and perplexity, wfith a great 
w'eight of care lying like a load at her heart. 

Terence continued speaking in an eager, almost 
boyish fashion : 

“ It w’’Ould give so much happiness, Lenore — not to 
me alone, but to all. Philip told me yesterday that it 
was w'hat he had been hoping for, for many long years. 
It has been his dream as well as mine.” 

Lenore’s hands clasped themselves more closely to- 
gether for one moment. A curious shade had passed 
over her face. It looked pale and w'eary in the fading 
light, and the tone of her voice had changed a little too ; 

“ Did Philip say that ? ” 

“Yes. I made him my confidant yesterday. He 
w'as very kind, and wdshed me joy and success. I 
could see how happy it made him for my sake. You 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


76 

know how Philip has always loved me — far more than 
I deserve — and how anxious he has been for my future. 
He knows how your love would influence me for good, 
and he has hoped for this a long while. Lenore, I know 
you think very highly of Philip — for his sake as well as 
for mine I ask you to hear me. ” 

“I have heard you already, Terence,” answered 
Lenore wearily. 

“ But you have not answered me, dearest.” 

‘‘What am I to say? I have told you that I do not 
love you.” 

“No, not as yet ; but grant me time and opportunity 
to win your love. Do not dismiss me without hope. 
Let us be, if not actually pledged to one another, at 
least bound by the tender tie of a mutual understanding. 
To me that tie will be as binding as the sacred marriage 
vow that I hope and trust will follow. I suppose I dare 
not ask a promise or a pledge from you? ” 

“ I can promise nothing, Terence,” answered Lenore, 
rising with a listless air. “ If you mean you are anxious 
lest I should marry someone else, you can dismiss the 
fear ; for I shall not. I will love you if I can, but that 
is all I can say, for I do not feel as though it will be 
possible. What I can do for you, I will, and if you are 
determined to hope, I will not forbid you ; only do not 
ever say that I have encouraged you, or I withdraw all 
that I have granted.” 

“ I accept your terms,” answered Terence gladly, the 
buoyancy and hopefulness of his nature again asserting 
itself, and he took and kissed one small, cold hand that 
hung at her side. “I will live in hope. I place my life 
in your hands ; do with it what you will. I am hence- 
forth bound to you, whether or not you will allow your- 
self to be bound to me.” 


BV THE MERE. 


77 


“No, Terence, I cannot bind myself,’’ answered 
Lenore gravely. “I can make no promise beyond 
what I have already said. I feel my future very uncer- 
tain. I cannot even promise you that our meetings 
shall be very frequent after a little time has passed. ” 

Terence’s face fell : 

“ What do you mean, Lenore } ” 

“I have some thoughts of going away.” 

“Where?” 

“I do not know ; but I may go for all that. I have 
been dependent long enough. I have youth and health, 
and I ought to profit by them. ” 

Terence would have protested, but Lenore checked 
him by a quiet gesture. 

“Do not raise objections, Terence. My mind is not 
yet made up ; but when it is, no arguments will move 
me. I shall act as I think right, and I will not be 
bound by any tie, such as you would put upon me. I 
must be a free agent” 

“Very well, Lenore, I will say nothing,” answered 
Terence, seeing full well that speech would be useless. 
“You shall do as you will ; only, if you take yourself 
away to any distance, promise me that you will write 
to me sometimes.” 

“Yes, Terence, I will write.” 

“Thank you, Lenore.” 

“ But you must not say one word of this scheme of 
mine to anyone else. I trust to your honor not to do 
so. I did not mean to have mentioned it to anyone 
until all was settled. You will keep my secret, 
Terence?” 

“I will.” 

They were nearing the farm now. Lenore looked up 
and said in the same weary way : 


78 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“I am tired, Terence. I will not go in to supper. 
Make my excuses for me.” 

Terence did so, and not a single one of those at table, 
who heard his words and saw his face, doubted for one 
moment that he and Lenore had plighted their troth to 
one another, by the Mere that evening. 

“ I think you may wish me joy, Phil,” said Terence, 
linking his arm within his brother’s, and drawing him 
out into the moonlight night. 

“May I? Then I do with all my heart, Terence. 
Is it all settled ? ” 

“ Not quite. It is hardly an engagement yet. She 
will not bind herself absolutely — she was startled and 
more unprepared than I had thought — but she has 
given me the right to woo her ; and that is very much 
the same thing, is it not?” 

“I do not know,” answered Philip. “ I should have 
thought Lenore would have been ready with a direct 
answer, yes or no.’’ 

“ Well, it was not so — unless a partial consent may 
be taken as a guarantee of a fuller one to come. She 
allowed me to bind myself to her, although she herself 
declined to be bound, for a little while to come at 
least.” 

This did not sound very like Lenore, and Philip won- 
dered somewhat. 

“It is an engagement to me, Phil,” said Terence 
gladly. “It has given me all the hope and the im- 
pulse for good, for which I have longed. I know how 
weak and careless I have been, how much anxiety I 
have given you ; but Lenore’s love and help will keep 
me now, I trust, from falling into temptation.” 

“ I hope it may be so, Terence,” answ'ered Philip. 


BV THE MERE. 


79 

*'And yet I wish it was in a stronger love than Le- 
nore’s, that you would learn to put your trust.” 

“I know what you mean, Phil, and I will strive 
after it. Lenore has promised to be my guide and my 
helpmate.” 

“But she has not promised, you say, to be your 
wife } ” 

“No, she has not exactly promised; but I do not 
think that promise will be long withheld. It was only 
as we came in together that she confided to me some 
plans and hopes and fears of which she has spoken to 
no one else. She told me them, bidding me keep her 
secret. I think this looks like the beginning of the 
end.’^ 





CHAPTER VIII. 
lenore’s resolve. 

K OW it came about Lenore never knew ; but from 
that day forward she found that everyone persisted 
in treating her and Terence as an engaged couple, and 
it was evident that the matter was considered as settled, 
although it was not openly announced. It was very 
galling to the girl to find herself placed in so equivocal 
a position, and yet she could not protest openly, be- 
cause no one spoke out on the subject. It was only 
by the small hints dropped, and significant glances 
exchanged, and by the tacit way in which the matter 
was accepted by all, that showed Lenore what was 
the generally-received impression in the mind of the 
family. 

Marjory was the only one who made any open allu- 
sion to the matter, and then Lenore checked her with 
quiet firmness : 

‘‘Marjory, dear, you are quite mistaken — lam not 
engaged to Terence.” 

“Oh, well, I don’t know what you call it, but it is 
just the same as being engaged.” 

“ Indeed it is not.” 

“At any rate, you soon will be, and so it isn’t 
worth while making a fuss,’’ laughed Marjory. “ And 



LE NO RE ’'S RESOL VE. 


Si 


it is very nice that you will always be our sister. I 
used to think it would be Philip ; but Terence does just 
as well.” 

Lenore’s color deepened so painfully that anyone 
more thoughtful than Marjory would have been sur- 
prised ; but she said nothing, and Marjory supposed 
that she had conceded the point under discussion. 

The days following that eventful Monday passed 
slowly and heavily for Lenore. Nothing could be more 
tender and chivalrous than Terence’s devotion ; and as 
he was really in earnest, and really sincere in much 
that he had said, and whilst the impulse towards right 
was strong upon him, as it still was, there was much 
that was very attractive and very lovable about him. 

Lenore was dreary and unhappy, and his affection 
could not but bring some comfort to her, although 
there was much pain mingled with the pleasure it gave. 
And yet the girl had some consolation granted her, 
some assurance that the sacrifice she seemed likely to 
be drawn into, would not be made in vain, for Ter- 
ence seemed very anxious to learn from her those 
sweet lessons of Divine Love, which he had cast away 
and forgotten ; and he was so teachable, so childlike 
and simple in the way he received her teaching, and 
gave signs of being so deeply impressed by what he 
learned, that it seemed as if the seed now planted must 
surely take root and spring up. As she watched his be- 
havior and listened to his words, she could not doubt 
that the good resolutions now made, were made with 
more earnestness than ever had been the case before, 
and there were great hopes in her heart that they were 
made no longer in his own strength, but in the strength 
of One more powerful and more sure-»that he was no 
longer biiiWin^ upon the hut upon the rock, 


82 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


This consolation was granted to Lenore during these 
long summer days, which were so dark to her, although 
every one believed them to be so bright. 

But the week ended at last, and Terence went away, 
and the girl felt, almost with dismay, how great a re- 
lief his absence was to her. 

When he had said good-bye, he had thrown so much 
tenderness into his voice and manner, that Lenore had 
been able to say : 

“Hush, Terence ; remember what I have said. We 
are not engaged. I have made no promise. We are 
both free. ” 

He smiled fearlessly. 

“You may be free ; but I am bound, and shall be so 
as long as there is a Lenore .in the world. God bless 
you, my dear one ! I can never thank you for what 
you have done for me ; but in the future I will try and 
prove my love.** 

He was gone, and Lenore breathed more freely, yet 
still a load lay upon her heart. 

That night she encountered Philip in the orchard. 
They had not been there together since the evening 
when he had first announced that Terence was coming 
home. What a long time seemed to her to have elapsed 
since then ! 

“Lenore,” said Philip smiling, and in the deepening 
twilight neither could see the repressed pain written on 
both faces, “do you remember our talk here.^* You 
said you would give much to be of any use to Terence, 
and I said that perhaps a time would come when you 
might be. You see now how true my words have been. 
God bless you, Lenore ! your influence over Terence 
has removed a terrible load of anxiety from my mind.” 

“ So that was what he meant all the while — that has 


LEONORE'S RESOLVE, 


83 

been his dream all these years ! ” mused Lenore, as she 
sat alone in her dim room a little later, her hands 
closely locked together, and her face pale and sad. 
“Oh, Philip ! Philip ! and 1, though I never knew it, 
have been making a hero -of you all these years, and 
have been loving you with more than a sister’s love. I 
suppose I may admit that to myself, for it is true — and 
oh ! to be half bound to a man like Terence — a butterfly 
— a gilded moth — a man who hardly is a man, judged 
by the standard I have set up. I can never, never 
marry him. I ought not to have conceded what I did ; 
but it was so hard to refuse him all he asked. It seemed 
so little then ; and now it has grown, I do not know 
how, into something so great. What shall I do ? What 
can I do .? I cajinot remain here. The place that was 
once such a happy home has grown unbearable. What 
shall I do } What can I do 1 ” 

The girl was growing agitated ; she paced up and 
down the room awhile, but then she conquered herself 
by a strong effort, and sat down again. 

“ I must think what to do. Words will not help me 
— I must act. One thing is plain — go I must. I can- 
not live on here, with things as they now are — with 
Terence coming constantly, and with everyone believ- 
ing what they do about us. And then, too, now that 
I know what Philip has grown to me — how I have 
come to look upon him, just through watching his con- 
duct through all these long years, I ought not to stay ; 
it would not be right to Terence nor to myself. I must 
get away, and soon ; but how.? and where ? ’’ 

She passed her hand across her brow, as if to clear 
away some troublesome mist. 

“I have been thinking of going before this. The 
idea is not new. 1 can truthfully tell them all that I 


84 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


have been thinking over the plan a long while. I want 
to help Philip with Hector s education. I shall do that 
if I am simply independent ; if I could get employment 
that would enable me to save money, I could do more. 
I might even be able to take upon myself the whole 
charge of his education, and send him to Cooper’s Hill 
when he is old enough to go.” 

Lenore’s face grew more animated as she proceeded, 
and the languor and pain died out. 

“ I know what I will do,” she said rising and lighting 
her lamp. 1 will write to Mrs. Davidson. She will 
advise me, I am sure.” 

Mrs. Davidson w^as an old friend of Lenore’s mother, 
whom the girl occasionally visited. 

She seated herself at the table, and wrote as follows : 

“Dear Mrs. Davidson, — When I was staying with you 
last, we had some little talk about my probable future 
life ; and, if you remember, you hinted to me, that I 
might perhaps at some time or another find it necessary 
to do something for myself. You also said that, if this 
should come to pass, I was to be sure to apply to you, 
as you believed you could always find some opening 
for me, where I should be able to make profitable use 
of such few talents as I possess. And now I am writ- 
ing to ask if you are ready to fulfil the word you gave 
me. I want some employment that shall make me in- 
dependent, and, if possible, enable me to help in the 
education of one of the boys here. You must not think I 
have had any misunderstanding with the Egremonts. 
On the contrary, I know that I shall have much diffi- 
culty in gaining their approval of the step I am about to 
take. But I Believe I am right to do so. I have been 
idle and dependent long enough; and now I mean to 


LEO NO RE RESOL FE. 8 5 

work, and, if possible, to do something to help those 
who have done so much for me. 

“If you can help me in this matter I shall feel very 
grateful. You know what I can do, and what my ser- 
vices are worth. I do not mind hard work, and I am 
fond of children and sick people. I shall await your 
answer with much impatience ; for, now that my mind 
is made up, the sooner the step is taken the better I 
shall be pleased. 

“Yours very affectionately, 

‘ ‘ Lenore Annandale. 

“P. S. — I should much prefer, if possible, to live in* 
the country. 

“Cottesmere Farm, June i, 18 — .” 

When this letter was written and despatched, a load 
seemed lifted from Lenore’s heart, and she went about 
with a brighter face than she had worn for many days. 

She resumed her old occupations with the tender 
sense of farewell following her, and every duty seemed 
sweet, because she felt that very soon she would no 
longer be able to perform it. 

After three days of suspense the answer came, and 
Lenore carried away the unopened letter from the 
breakfast table, to read it alone in a secluded corner of 
the orchard. 

The envelope contained a letter from Mrs. Davidson 
and an enclosure. The former claimed Lenore’s first 
attention. 

It ran as follows : 

“My Dear Lenore, — Your letter came safely to me, 
and I am very pleased that you have taken me at my 
word, and have applied to me ; more especially as, by 


86 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


a curious coincidence, I have just heard of something* 
which will, I believe, suit you exactly. 

“ IJkIrs. Boghey, whose letter I enclose, is a widow, 
and she lives in a secluded part of Scotland, on the sea- 
coast. She is a strange woman, and leads a lonely 
life ; but she is not as hard as she seems, and would, I 
believe, try to make her ‘ companion ’ happy. She has 
had some dreadful trouble with a scapegrace son, who 
committed some crime, and died in enforced exile some 
years ago. If you could do anything to cheer her 
lonely and childless old age, I believe it would be a 
very great charity ; and it seems to me that you are the 
very woman of whom she is in search. 

“Write and let me know your feelings, and if you 
would like to accept Mrs. Boghey’s offer, enclose the 
required note to her. 

“If this does not suit your wishes, I will try for 
something else ; but I cannot but hope you may be 
willing to go to Auckness Point. It is a fine old place, 
and the scenery is wild and picturesque. The climate, 
too, is milder than is usual so far north. — Believe me, 
dear Lenore, to remain, 

“Your sincere and affectionate friend, 

“Eleanor Davidson. 

“22 Soufhwell Crescent, S. W., June 3.” 

Lenore glanced rapidly through this letter, and then 
took up the enclosure, and read : 

“Dear Mrs. Davidson, — You have helped me in 
other matters — can you help me in this ? I want a 
companion. My sight is failing somewhat. My one 
resource is books ; and I must have someone to read 
to me what I require. She must be a lady. She must 


LEOxVOKE'S eesolve. 


87 

be young. She must be quiet in voice and manner, 
independent in disposition, and she must have educa- 
tion and resources in herself ; for I shall not want her 
always with me, and there is no society here.' No- 
body given to morbid depression could live here. She 
must have equable spirits and a contented nature. You 
know what I and my household are like, and will see 
this for yourself. I am lonely, desolate, and unhappy. 
At times I feel as though the sight of some young, 
happy face would do me good. Can you find some 
young girl willing to come and share my sorrowful life, 
and be somewhat of a companion to me.? 

“As to salary, I know little of what is considered 
fitting in such cases ; 100/., or more if you think right, 
I would gladly give. Less I will not offer, for I must 
have a lady by birth and education, and it will be a 
dreary and lonely life for her. 

“If you can help me in this matter, you will greatly 
oblige, 

“Yours very truly, 

“G. H. V. Boghey. 

“P. S. — If you find the girl I want, let her write me 
a note, enclosing a photograph, if possible, telling me 
her name, her age, what her daily occupations have 
been, and what are her favorite studies and amuse- 
ments, and anything else she may care to mention. 
Nothing so reveals a person’s character as her own 
letters. 

“ Auckness Point, June i, 18 — .” 

Lenore had not finished reading the letter before her 
mind was fully made up. 

“It seems just made for me,” she said half aloud, 
“just what I would have chosen — some sad, lonely life 


88 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


to try and cheer and comfort. I hope she will take 
me. 1 woidd try to be a daug-hter to her, if she would 
let me. It does seem as though such an opening were 
just made for me. And 1 had been rowing gdepressed 
— feeling as though I were deserted and left alone with 
my trouble.” Lenore looked out into the blue dis- 
tance, and a faint, sweet smile broke over her face. 
“But that was all my own want of faith ; and now 
I can feel that the ‘ everlasting arms ’ are under me 
still.” 

That same morning a grateful note of thanks and 
acceptance was written to Mrs. Davidson ; and then 
Lenore began the more difficult task of composing the 
required missive for Mrs. Boghey. 

Lenore hunted up a photograph, lately taken, in 
which she and Colin were represented sitting together 
upon a fallen log of wood. It was not a good photo- 
graph, but it gave a good idea of the girFs graceful, 
supple figure and animated face, as she looked smilingly 
and warningly at the dog, and rested one hand with a 
detaining grasp upon his collar. 

“ I suppose this must go,” she said, “for I have no 
other. And it will give me a better chance of getting 
permission for Col to come, for she will see by his en- 
gaging countenance how good and beautiful he is. 
We could never consent to be separated, could we. Col ? 
No, never! And now for the letter.” 

Lenore took up her pen and began to write in the 
clear, characteristic hand which belonged to her. 

“Dear Madam, — Mrs. Davidson has told me that 
you want a companion ; and by her advice and by my 
own wish, I write to offer myself as such, if you will 
consent to allow me to try and fill that office towards 
you. 


LEOmRE^S RESOLVE. 


89 

“ My name is Lenore Annandale. I am twenty-three 
years old ; and 1 am an orphan, and can hardly remem- 
ber my parents. A friend of my mother adopted me 
on her death ; and I have lived with her children and 
been treated as one of them ever since. 

“It is a farm-house where 1 live, and I have taken 
charge of the poultry, and overlooked the dairy ever 
since 1 have been old enough to do so. I am very 
fond of flowers, and of gardening too, and of any 
kind of out-of-door exercise. 

“My favorite indoor occupations are music and 
drawing, and I am always happy with a book. I like 
reading aloud, and do it a great deal in the long winter 
evenings, whilst the others work. 

“ 1 have a collie dog, who appears in the photograph. 
Ifl come to you, may I bring him with me ? I have 
brought him up from a puppy, and we are very fond of 
one another. 

“ If you mean to let me come, I am ready at any 
time to do so. Last days will not be pleasant, and I 
do not mind how few of them you leave me. 

“ Yours very sincerely, 

“ Lenore Annandale. 

“Cottesmere Farm, June 4.’' 

This letter was read over by Lenore with a critical 
eye : 

“ I wonder if I have said too much — if I have been 
too familiar or too outspoken. Well, I don’t know ; 
I’ve only said what is true, and I don’t see why it 
should not stand. I will send it as it is, for I might do 
no better if I wrote half a dozen amended copies.” 

So Lenore sealed up and dispatched her missive, and 
waited as patiently and as quietly as she could until 
the answer came. 


90 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


In the shortest space of time possible, Lenore 
received the reply, which was short almost to abrupt- 
ness, but perfectly to the point : 

Dear Miss Annan dale, — I have received your letter, 
and I believe you will suit me. Will you come to me 
on the 15th of this month? You can bring your dog 
with you. 

“Your salary will be 150/., paid quarterly. 

“Mrs. Davidson will give you full directions as to 
the journey, which will be taken at my expense. 

“ Believe me to be, 

‘ ‘ Sincerely yours, 

“G. H. V. Boghey. 

“ Auckness Point, June 6 186, — ” 

Mrs. Davidson s letter, which arrived by the next post, 
contained a pressing invitation for Lenore to come at 
once to her in London, as she had quite set her heart 
on going over the girl’s wardrobe and taking upon her- 
self the expense of sending her out into the world suit- 
ably arrayed for the position she was to occupy there. 

The girl’s heart was very full, as she wrote a brief and 
grateful acceptance of this kind offer, and fixed the fol- 
lowing day but one as that of her departure. 

When this letter was written and posted, Lenore felt 
that the question as to her future was now settled, and 
the matter out of her own hands. 

A restful, thankful feeling stole over her, and it seemed 
to her as though the “ everlasting arms ” were holding 
her very tenderly. 



CHAPTER IX. 

TELLING THE NEWS. 

ND-all this while Lenore had kept her plans to her- 
self, and none of the Egremonts had the least idea 
of the important step she was going to take. 

But they must be told now, and Lenore found it more 
difficult than she had imagined, to open the subject to 
any of them. 

However, it had to be done ; and the girl felt that the 
best chance she had of getting a quiet hearing was to 
speak first to Madeline and Philip. When she by chance 
came upon them that same evening, sitting together in 
a sheltered corner of the garden, she felt that her time 
had come, and that this was the opportunity she had 
coveted. 

Perhaps her face betrayed some unusual feeling, for 
Madeline held out her hand, asking gently : 

Is anything the matter, Lenore ? 

“I hope not,” answered she, trying to smile ? “ only 
I have something to say to you, and I am afraid you 
may not like it. Only, please don’t be angry with me ; ” 
and there was a little quiver in her voice more pathetic 
than tears. 

“No, dearest, nothing can ever make us angry with 
you,” said Madeline, pressing her hand ; and Philip 
echoed with quiet emphasis : 



92 


lenore annandale. 


“No, nothing.” 

^ ‘ Thank you so much for saying that I am not 
afraid of anything else, and I will tell you everything. 
I am going away from here.” 

“Going away ! ” 

The expression broke simultaneously from both her 
listeners, and was followed by dead silence. 

“Yes, going away,” continued Lenore, her voice 
gathering firmness as she went on. ‘ ‘ I have been think- 
ing about it a long while, and now it is all settled. I 
want to be both helpful and independent, and now I 
can be so. I am going to be companion to a Mrs. 
Boghey, who lives in Scotland. I think I shall like her, 
and I hope she will like me. She is very liberal, and 
is going to give me a hundred and fifty pounds a year 
salary. I may have to dress more there than I do here ; 
but I cannot possibly use more than fifty pounds my- 
self. Philip, I want you to send Hector to some good 
preparatory school for Coopers Hill. I believe a hundred 
pounds a year will be enough. You can then save 
what you would have spent on him and on me, so that in 
three years, or whatever is the time for him to enter, there 
will be money enough for it ; for, if I and Mrs. Boghey 
agree, my hundred pounds will still go on. I shall 
send you the first twenty-five pounds in the middle of 
September — in time to pay the fees for the Michaelmas 
term. And things will go on regularly afterwards. 
Now that you understand all that, there is no need to 
say any more about it. I wish to do it, and I will do it. 
Hector shall not be served as Duff has been ; and if it 
is anyone s duty to try and make up for wrong done by 
Terence, I suppose it is mine.” 

So firmly and rapidly had Lenore poured all this 
startling intelligence into their ears, that there had been 


TELLING TILE NEWS, 


93 

no chance to get in a single word ; and now that she had 
stopped, it seemed as though neither of her hearers 
knew what to say first. 

‘ ‘ Why, Lenore, ” said Madeline at last, ‘ ‘ there was no 
need for you to make this sacrifice.’* 

“It is not a sacrifice,” answered the girl quickly, 
“not nearly so much as you think. 1 cannot explain 
myself quite, but you must not think I am making a 
great sacrifice. I shall be more sorry than I can say to 
leave you all, and Cottesmere, and the lovely places I 
am so fond of : and yet there are reasons why I feel I 
must go, and why I have done what I have told you.’" 

“ Is everything finally settled ? ” asked Philip, speak- 
ing for the first time, and with a curious, hard inflection 
in his voice. 

“Yes, Philip.” 

“Irrevocably?” 

“ Irrevocably.” 

“And when do you go ? ” 

“The day after to-morrow.” 

“Lenore ! ’’exclaimed Madeline, with almost a re- 
proachful sound in her voice. Philip turned his face 
away and said nothing. 

“Yes, Madeline,” pursued Lenore quickly, “ it is 
better so. It will be better for us all. I cannot bear the 
thought of last days and good-byes. I have shortened 
them purposely. The day after to-morrow I go to 
town to Mrs. Davidson’s — it is she who has found me 
the work I wanted ; and next week I go to Scotland. 
It seems sudden, I know, but I am glad. I do not 
want more time than I shall have.” 

“ But what will Terence say ?” asked Madeline, with 
sudden doubt in voice and tone. 


94 


LENORE ANNANDALE. ' 


“Terence has no right to say anything,'’ answered 
Lenore decisively. 

“ Lenore ! Terence no right ! ” echoed Madeline, 
with a look of wonder. 

“ No,” answered the girl quickly. “I am not en- 
gaged to Terence, although you are all so determined to 
make out that I am. He has no right to say anything. ’’ 

“But — but — do you mean he does not already know 
what you have done ? ” 

“ Nobody knows except you and Philip, for the good 
reason that it was only to-day that the post in, and the 
post out, have brought and carried away the letters 
which have settled the matter. Terence will find out 
when he first comes over here. ” 

“ Surely, Lenore, you will write to him? ” 

“ I will if I have time, but I may not get that. He 
will be quite prepared, for I told him it was probable I 
should take such a step ; only I never believed it could 
have been done so quickly, or that circumstances would 
have been so favorable. He may be surprised at that, 
as I am. ” 

A curious look had stolen over Philip’s face. He had 
risen and turned away from the speakers, but now he 
wheeled slowly round, and looked down at Lenore 
with an earnest, questioning gaze : 

“ How long has this decision been made, Lenore ? ” 

“ I have been thinking about doing something for a 
long time.” 

“But when did you decide to begin just now ? ” 

^ ‘ A few days ago. ” 

“ Since you and Terence — came to an understand- 
ing .? ” 

Lenore hesitated a moment, and then answered in a 
low tone : 


TELLING THE NEWS. 


95 


^^Yes.” 

Philip asked no more questions. There was rather a 
long silence, during which a good many curious 
thoughts passed through his mind. Finally he spoke 
again : 

“Well, Lenore, as you say the matter is irrevocably 
settled, I suppose it is useless to urge you to alter your 
mind, and that you would rather be spared our regrets ; 
but will you tell me why you did not take any of us 
into your confidence ? There was a time, Lenore, when 
you confided all your plans to me.” 

Lenore looked up quickly, with a look as of mute 
entreaty in her eyes. 

“ I was afraid you would try to dissuade me, Philip,” 
she answered simply and deprecatingly ; “and I did 
not feel sure I could stand firm if you did ; and yet I 
feel It to be right to go. ” 

“I cannot quite see it,” Madeline said gently and 
regretfully. “We shall miss you sadly, Lenore. The 
house will not the-same without you.” 

Lenore pressed her hand gratefully, and said, with 
rather a tearful smile : 

“ For Hector s sake, Madeline. He is so clever, he 
ought to have a fair chance.” 

“ Lenore,” said Philip gravely, “ I do not think I can 
accept for him what you offer. It is most generous ; 
but is it just to yourself.'* I must think your offer over, 

If I believed I could ever repay you ” 

“Philip!” The look that accompanied this word • 
checked him at once. “How can you I ” 

“I beg your pardon, Lenore,” he answered ; “I did 
not mean to hurt you.” 

“You do hurt me when you speak so,” she answered 
with a flash of indignation ; but almost immediately 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


96 

she recovered herself, and added with a smiling play- 
fulness : 

“ You have no voice at all in the matter, so you need 
not be so grand. Surely I may do what I please with 
my own. If you will not take it in trust for Hector, I 
have no doubt that Duff will, or if Duff won’t, some 
lawyer will. There is no difficulty in arranging things 
my own way. So you might just as well make your- 
self helpful to me as not.” 

And so Philip was vanquished. 

The news that Lenore was going to leave them, fell 
like a thunderbolt on the family. The boys protested 
loudly, Marjory looked absolutely astounded and incred- 
ulous ; whilst Dora’s face, if it expressed anything, 
expressed envy. 

“So, Lenore,” she said that night, “ so you are going 
to leave the nest, and try the power of your wings. 
Happy you ! ” 

“Why happy for that } ” questioned Lenore. “The 
nest is as happy a place as I shall ever find.” 

“ Then why leave it } ” 

“ Because I must. I have not the right to it that you 
have. It is my duty to leave it, and to seek indepen- 
dence.” 

“ I wish it were my duty too.” 

“Oh, Dora! ” 

“Ido.” 

“But why?” 

“I want to see life. I want to see the world ; I 
want a sphere — a vocation — whatever you like to call 
it. I am sick to death of this narrow little round of 
home. I feel if I only had the opportunity I could do 
so much-=her§ I cun do nothing.” 

“Put ypu can, Pora ; you can do 3 great deal, You 


TELLING THE NEWS. 


97 

do a great deal as it is ; you could do more if you cared 
to. Think of your schools, your district, your clubs — — ” 

“Schools ! district ! I am sick of the very sound of 
the words,” echoed Dora disdainfully ; “ anybody could 
do work like that. What I want is more space, more 
spirit and enterprise. 1 want to be in the great vortex 
of life, where things move fast and draw us with them 
• — not in a little, dreamy,- standstill place like this.” 

Lenore looked grave and perplexed. 

“ I wonder what makes you feel so, Dora ? ” 

“ I wonder why everyone does not feel the same.” 

“ It is a good thing they do not.” 

“Why so.?” 

“Because it cannot be a healthy feeling.” 

“How do you make that out?” 

“I think it must spring from discontent,” answered 
Lenore ; “ that is why.” 

“Is discontent always wrong? ” 

“Is it not ? ” 

“I don’t think so. The world would nev^r get on 
without it. It is the basis of all reform — of all law and 
order. ” 

“Perhaps in a way it is so,” answered Lenore 
thoughtfully ; “ yet I should hardly call the feeling you 
mean discontent ; and, Dora, I cannot understand why 
you should feel as you do. You have such a happy 
life, or might have.” 

“ I am not happy,” said Dora gloomily. “If it 
comes to that, who is ? ” 

“lam.” 

“ Are you ? ” 

“ Yes, I am. ” 

“ Before you were engaged to Terence ? ” > 

7 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


98 

*‘0h, yes,” answered Lenore with a quick flush. 
“That has not made me happy.” 

“I wonder what has then,” said Dora thoughtfully. 
“ Marjory is happy as a child is happy, because she 
does not think, and Madeline because she lives for 
other people and has no thought to spare for herself ; 
but you do think, Lenore, and life is not all play to 
you, nor all care either. I often wonder what makes 
you happy.” 

“I can soon tell you, Dora.” 

“ Can you ? ” 

“ Yes, if you do not know without.” 

“ How could I know ? ” 

“You must have heard so often.” 

“I think not. Heard what makes you happy ! No, 

I have not ; tell me, Lenore.” 

“The love of God,” answered Lenore simply and 
reverently. 

Dora was silent awhile, and then she said : 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“Not understand, Dora ? ” 

“No; God’s love is just a name to me; I know 
nothing of it, nor what it can do. I go to church ; I 
teach my Sunday-school class from the Bible ; I say my 
prayers night and morning ; but my heart is like 
a stone. I know that God is good, that Christ died for 
us — I know it, and I suppose I believe it ; but what good 
is that to me ? It does not make me happy. It does not 
make me contented. I cannot even understand by 
what power it can make anyone happy. What is there 
in such belief to bring about such a result.? I cannot 
see the cause or effect.” 

Lenore’s face grew troubled. 

“ Dora, I am so sorry — so sorry for you. It must be 


TELLING THE NEWS. 


99 

very sad to feel like that. Have you ever prayed for 
faith } 

I have prayed for everything; and the heaven is 
like brass above me.” 

“ Seems, perhaps, Dora, but never is. Our prayers 
are always heard.” 

“ But if they are not answered, how are we to know 
that.? ” 

“We must trust.” ^ 

“ I don’t think my nature is a very trusting one.” 

“And hope.” 

“I am tired of hoping.” 

“Do not grow tired, Dora,” pleaded Lcnore very 
earnestly. “Do not stop praying, and do not lose heart. 
Trust in God, and indeed, indeed you will have an 
answer at last. ” 

“You are very confident, Lenore.” 

A curious smile played over the girl’s face. 

“ I have reason to be.” 

Dora looked curiously at her. 

“These things seem so real to you.” 

“Because they are real.” 

“I wish they were so to me.” 

“I wish so too, Dora. It would make all the differ- 
ence to your life.” 

“I believe it would,” answered Dora slowly. “ I 
would give anything for the hope and trust and confi- 
dence that others have ; but I cannot attain to it. It is 
no use trying any longer.” 

“ Do not give up trying,” rejoined Lenore gently. “ I 
am sure light will come in time.” 

“ At evening time, perhaps,” answered Dora with a 
sad smile. “If God is good, as you say He is. He 
may grant me that. But, so far as one can see, I am 


lOO 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


but in the morning of my life, and it is a long while to 
wait. ” 

“ Oh, Dora ! cried Lenore earnestly, “it will surely 
come to you before that. Do not despair. Hope on, 
and work on, and pray for light ; and I know it will 
come.” 

“ Do you } ” said Dora sadly. “ I wish I did. ” 

“ Perhaps you are nearer the light than you think,” 
suggested Lenore softly. 

“ How do you mean } ” 

“I mean just what I say. What is it, Dora, makes 
you keep on so diligently with the work you do for 
others } You speak with contempt of your schools, 
your district, and the other things you do. What makes 
you go on sacrificing your pleasures, and spending so 
large a portion of your time just for the sake of others } 
You say it is not a labor of love — what is it then .? and 
what makes you persevere so diligently in it ? ” 

“ I often ask myself that question,” returned Dora, 
“and can find no sufficient answer. I suppose it is 
because I must do something, or life would be intol- 
erable, and these are the only employments I can find. 
If I can make anyone else happy in this dismal world, 
lam very glad of it ; but I never see how paying a 
visit and reading or talking to people can produce the 
effect they say it does. Still, as long as it is so, and as 
long as I am obliged to stay here, I should always go on. 
I suppose our lives are given us for some purpose, and if 
they help others in any way one ought to be glad of it.*’ 

“ Dora, ” said Lenore smiling, “ you remind me of the 
man to whom our Lord said, ‘ Thou art not far from 
the kingdom of heaven. ’ ” 

Dora was silent, and presently she said in a softened 
tone ; 


TELLING THE NEWS. 


lOI 


Thank you, Lenore, for what you have said. I am 
afraid I have often been unjust to you — thought you 
trivial, thoughtless, and shallow, because you were 
happy and light-hearted ; been jealous when I saw how 
much beloved you always were. I have called you 
hard names in my heart ; but I was unjust, and I apol- 
ogize for it. Will you forgive me ? ” 

“Oh, Dora, yes — you know it without asking — if 
there is anything to forgive." 

“Thank you; and, Lenore, you will not forget me. 
Will you pray for me .? " 

Dora spoke in her ordinary cold, calm tones ; but her 
voice was full of an unusual feeling, which could not 
quite be repressed, and which touched Lenore more than 
any outward agitation could do. 

“I will indeed, Dora." 

“Your prayers should be more potent than mine," 
said the girl with a curious smile, half sweet, half bitter, 

‘ ‘ for you have faith. " 

“And you will have faith yourself in time — I am 
sure of it," answered Lenore earnestly. “And every- 
thing will look different to you then. Oh, yes, you 
must have faith ; and happiness will follow in time. 
Do not despair. You will write to me, Dora.? You 
will not forget me ? " 

Lenore broke off hastily. It was hard to face the 
parting, now that the hour had so nearly come. Dora 
kissed her, and left her to herself ; and Marjory cried 
herself asleep in her arms that night ; but Lenore’s 
firmness did not desert her. 

Two days later she was on her way to London, and 
the party at Cottesmere Farm felt that a great blank 
had been made in the house. 



CHAPTER X. 
lenore’s arrival. 

T half-past eight o'clock on a bright June evening, 
a train drew slowly up at the small station nearest 
to the little town of Bervie, in Scotland. 

There was only one passenger to alight — a slight, 
graceful girl, who looked somewhat pale and jaded, as 
though she had travelled far that day ; and she held fast 
by the collar a black collie dog, and by word and gesture 
restrained his impatient attempts to free himself. 

Her modest luggage was already out upon the plat- 
form, the train was moving slowly onwards, and Lenore 
looked round her in a rather bewildered way, as though 
she hardly knew what her next move would be. Com- 
posed as were her looks, she was too inexperienced a 
traveller not to feel some qualms of anxiety as to what 
would become of her. 

But almost immediately her doubts were set at rest. 

A footman in a handsome but sombre livery ap- 
proached and touched his hat : 

“ Mrs. Boghey's carnage is waiting outside, ma'am.'' 

Lenore followed the man silently, and found to her 
relief that the carriage was an open landau. It looked 
luxurious ; the horses, a pair of powerful bays, won her 




LENORE'S ARRIVAL. 


103 


admiration at the first glance. She hoped the drive 
would be a long one. 

“Is it far to Auckness Point she asked. 

“About twelve miles, ma’am. Would you prefer the 
carriage closed ? ” 

“No, thank you, open.” 

The horses started. Colin leaped and barked joyously 
round them. Lenore leaned back in her seat with a 
sigh of relief. 

‘ ‘ An hour’s drive at least, ” she said to herself. ‘ ‘ How 
delicious ! What sweet, clear air 1 What a delightful 
change from close, dusty railway carriages and the glare 
of a burning sun ! ’’ 

It was a very picturesque road along which they were 
driving, and Lenore looked round "with wonder and 
admiration at what she saw. Accustomed to the soft, 
undulating country, and the green loveliness of Cottes- 
mere, these wild, bare hill-sides, craggy rocks, and 
stretches of gold and purple moorland looked almost 
unearthly in their lonely grandeur. She was at once 
awed and delighted, and felt as if she had indeed pene- 
trated into a new and unknown world. 

The air had that peculiar crisp freshness which one 
hardly ever feels away from the Scotch sea-coast. The 
light was clear and soft, in spite of the lateness of the 
hour ; the sky was like a dome of dusky, cloudless blue, 
which faded into pale gray towards the north and east, 
and into soft tints of green and gold and opal in the 
south and west 

“It is very lovely,” said Lenore softly. “I wish 
Philip could see it’ 

The scenery changed and shifted with every turn in 
the road, though it still preserved its strong outlines and 
grand combinations of rock and moor. 


104 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


Once a vast pine wood seemed to rise suddenly in 
their very path, and the road ran white and straight 
through the solemn aisles of these great, bare, ruddy 
trunks, whilst far overhead the waving tops made weird 
music in the evening breeze, and cast a deep shade 
like that of night upon all around. 

And when the wood was passed, a sudden turn in 
the road brought them full upon a scene which made 
Lenore catch her breath suddenly, and gaze, and gaze 
with a kind of strange joy, as though she could not 
take in at once what she saw nor realize what it was. 

What she saw was a wide expanse of sea, silvered 
by the rising moon, tossing high its white waves, as if 
impatient of control, as it dashed up against the black 
rocks and covered them with showers of snowy foam. 

The road ran close along the coast for two miles and 
more. The salt wind played over her face, and left 
its kisses on her lips. It was cold and wet, but invig- 
orating. It seemed as if its touch was enough to 
restore life and health to the sick and dying, and to give 
new strength to all the world. 

The music of the waves was in her ears, the quiet, 
never-ceasing murmur, broken each moment by a silvery 
splash, and at somewhat rare intervals by a fierce boom 
and hiss, as a larger wave came racing up against a 
rock, dashed itself to pieces, and fell back with a sullen 
“ fr-r-s-ch ” of disappointed anger. 

The coast was marvellously grand at this point, and 
although in the failing light Lenore could not see all 
its beauties, she saw enough to impress her with great 
admiration and awe. 

She had seldom seen the sea before — never in the 
beauty and wildness of a rock-bound coast ; and she 
was filled with wonder and delight. 


LENORE^S ARRIVAL. 


105 


Then suddenly the road turned inland, the carriage 
dashed through a pair of handsome iron gates, past a 
picturesque lodge, through a well-kept park, more 
wooded than the bareness of the surrounding country 
would lead one to expect, and it drew up finally at 
rather a gloomy portal, in a grim-looking pile of build- 
ing, whose outline it was too dusk to take in, in detail; 
and the next minute Lenore found herself in a dark, 
square hall, panelled with black oak, hung with dusky- 
looking pictures and old armor, round wdiich a gallery 
ran, from which the girl could almost fancy she saw 
frowning, ghostly faces gazing down upon her. 

She had never been in such a place before, and com- 
ing into it, as she did, from the clear, soft beauty of the 
outside world, she felt a momentary thrill of dismay 
and fear creep over her. Colin, too, was quite subdued 
and pressed close to her ; and she caressed his silky 
head with her ungloved hand, and felt thankful that 
she had so trusty a friend at her side. 

Lenore had been but a few seconds in the hall when 
she was approached by a stern-faced, elderly woman, 
who by her manner and appearance seemed to be a 
kind of superior upper servant. 

“ Shall I show you to your room, ma'am ? " she 
asked solemnly. “ My mistress will be happy to see 
you shortly.'' 

“Thank you,'’ answered Lenore mechanically, and 
she followed in silence whilst her conductor led her up 
the wide, shallow, oak steps, along one wide corridor 
and into another which crossed it at right angles. It 
seemed to Lenore as though this narrower corridor 
were mysteriously and unnaturally long. Far, far down 
she saw the window which lighted it ; and the number 


Io6 LEND RE ANNANDALE, 

of doors that opened upon it struck her as being un- 
canny and ghostly. 

She had not to go far down, however, for the servant 
soon threw open a door which led into a comfortable, 
well-furnished and well-lighted sitting-room, and be- 
yond that the bedroom lay, which was also comfort- 
able, and even handsome, in all its appointments, 
although it had not succeeded in throwing off the air 
of darkness and melancholy which penetrated through 
the whole house. 

A small fire burned in either grate. 

“ I thought you might feel cold after your journey, 
ma’am, so I kept the fires in,” explained the woman, 
who spoke clearly and well, with a strong Scotch in- 
tonation, but with very few words that were unfamiliar 
to Lenore’s ears. “ We often burn a little fire in an 
evening even in summer, for the air is chilly here. I 
think you will find the rooms aired, and all in order. 
One of the maids will bring you your tea at once. 
And when you are rested my mistress will see you, if it 
is agreeable to yourself. ” 

“ Shall I go to Mrs. Boghey now f ” asked Lenore. 
“It is ten o’clock. Will she not be wanting to go to 
bed ? ” 

The woman smiled grimly. 

“ My mistress never goes to bed this side of mid- 
night. We had better abide by what she has said. I 
will come for you at eleven. You will hardly be ready 
before that. ” 

Left alone, Lenore felt very strange — as one who 
lives in a dream, rather than as one who has full 
control over her actions. 

She was not sad, she was not depressed, nor yet 
afraid, in spite of the ghostliness of her surroundings ; 


L£JVOJ^£'S ARRIVAL. 


107 


but she felt as though she lived and moved in a new 
world, and as though she was utterly ignorant what 
new turn the aspect of affairs might at any moment 
take. 

Colin was sniffing uneasily round and round the un- 
familiar rooms. Lenore roused herself to look at them 
in detail. 

They were good-sized square rooms, with a high, 
dark wainscot all round, and a rather sombre, but a 
handsome, paper above the wood-work. The furniture 
was solid, handsome, and old-fashioned. Some of the 
pieces were rather richly carved, and there was an inlaid 
cabinet which excited Lenore’s admiration to no small 
degree. The carpet was soft to the tread and rich and 
dark in color ; the chairs were well padded, and more 
comfortable than they looked ; and there was a great 
deal that pleased the girl’s fancy in the quaint, antique 
aspect of the rooms. 

When a rosy-cheeked maid came in to lay the tea, 
Lenore asked : 

“Can you tell me what kind of a look-out my 
windows have .? 

“ They look right over the sea, mem,” answered the 
girl with the prettiest Scotch accent possible, and with 
abroad smile on her face. “ ’Tis the bonniest view 
when the sun shines, gin ye like to look over the sea.” 

“I do,” answered Lenore, smiling too. “I like it 
very much.” 

“Gin ye want any help, mem, or anything at a’, and 
ye ring yon bell. I’ll come up directly. I’m bidden by 
my leddy to wait on ye. ” 

“Thank you,” said Lenore. “I shall remember; 
and what is your name ? ” 

Annie Mclver, please, mem.” 


I 08 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

The girl retired with a smile and a curtsey, and 
Lenore was left alone to her meal. 

The keen northern air had given her an appetite, and 
she and Colin alike did justice to the good cheer set be- 
fore them ; and when the repast was ended, the girl 
went into her bedroom, removed all traces of her 
journey from her neat attire, smoothed her hair, and 
made ready for the introduction to her — well, her mis- 
tress or friend, according as the issue should show. 

If Lenore shrank from the coming interview, or 
looked forward to it with nervous dread, at least she 
showed no outward signs of doing so. 

When the housekeeper came for her, she found her 
tranquil and composed, and quite ready to accompany 
her to Mrs. Boghey's presence. 

“ Shall I bring the dog or leave him ? 

^‘As you please, ma’am. I have no orders about 
him one way or the other.” 

Colin answered the question himself, by putting his 
nose into Lenore’s hand, and asking in his eloquent, 
dumb way not to be left behind. 

*‘Come, then,” she said, “we will go together.” 

It was a strange hour to set out on such an errand. 
To Lenore, as she followed her guide through the mazes 
of this great, strange house, it seemed as though it 
were some fantastic dream, which thus brought her to 
be paying her first visit to her patroness at this dead 
hour of the night. 

But the journey came to an end at last. The servant 
halted suddenly at a door which stood within a deep 
recess. She knocked, waited a second, and then flung 
it wide. 

“ Miss Annandale,”she said solemnly, and motioned 
Lenore to enter. 


LEND RE'S ARRIVAL. 


109 


The girl did so, and found herself in a very long 
room, filled almost entirely with books. Books lined 
the walls and piled the tables, and each odd-shaped 
recess, of which there were several in the room, was 
full of them. 

The apartment lay in deep shadow where she stood, 
but two shaded lamps and a small glowing fire at the 
upper end, gave sufficiency of light to reveal distinctly 
the figure and face of Mrs. Boghey. 

She was tall and thin and upright — that could be 
seen even when she was seated, as at present. She 
was dressed in robes of clinging black, unrelieved by 
any kind of color, or even by a white frill. Her very 
cap was black, and long black mittens covered her 
hands. 

Her face was a remarkable one. It was thin, and 
yet each feature was beautifully formed and delicately 
cut, and it was evident that in her youth she must have 
been exceedingly handsome. Now the cheeks were 
hollow, the features wasted, and the rippling hair was 
as white as the driven snow. 

But what most struck, and even startled, Lenore was 
the deathly, waxen whiteness of the skin. It was as 
colorless as marble, and even the lips were perfectly 
white. It gave the face a ghastliness quite indescrib- 
able * and the expression of the large, hollow, dark 
eyes’ which had not lost any of their fire, heightened 
the effect of a contrast which always produced a start- 
ling impression. 

Those dark, luminous eyes ! What dreadful rnean- 
ings, or what hidden, awful knowledge, lay hidden 
aw’ay in the soul of which those eyes were the win- 
dows ? In describing Mrs. Boghey s expression once 
to Philip, Lenore said that the impression produced 


no 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


upon her mind by the look in her eyes was that she 
had at some time in her life experienced an awful 
shock, or an awful revelation, and that she had never 
quite recovered it. 

Lenore had taken all this in during the brief moment 
whilst she stood on the threshold with an uncertain 
air, hardly knowing whether to advance at once, or to 
wait until she was bidden. 

A voice from the far end of the room broke the deep 
silence : 

“Lenore Annan dale, are you there ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the girl timidly. 

“Then come here where I can see you.” 

Lenore advanced slowly into the circle of light, and 
stood beside Mrs. Boghey. 

“ Sit down.” 

She obeyed, and felt that the keen, piercing eyes were 
scanning her face with unmerciful scrutiny. Her 
color began to rise. 

“ Look up at me,” said Mrs. Boghey, in her hard, 
even voice. “ Let me see your eyes.” 

Lenore obeyed, and the young woman and the old 
looked steadily into each other’s faces. 

“That will do,” she said. “ I see you can meet my 
eyes ; it is not everyone that can, but I will not do 
with people about me who cannot Are you afraid of 
me, Lenore Annandale } ” 

“ No,” answered Lenore quietly. “I am not afraid. 

I have no reason to be.” 

“Good, again. Some people fear without cause.” 

Lenore made no response. 

“Are you nervous or timid?” 

“I think not” 

“ Why do you say think ' 


LENORE^S ARRIVAL. 


Ill 


Because I have never been fried yet. There was 
nothing at home to make me so.” 

Mrs. Boghey’s face seemed almost to smile — at least 
so Lenore fancied, but she could not be sure — and next 
minute the cross-examination continued : 

“ Is that your dog ” 

“Yes. I am very much obliged to you for allowing 
me to bring him. ” 

“ What is his name ? ” 

“Colin.” 

“ Colin, come here,” said Mrs. Boghey, holding out 
one thin, white hand. 

Lenore half expected the dog would shrink away, but 
he did not ; on the contrary, he advanced, licked the 
extended hand, and sat down with his head against its 
owner’s lap. 

When Lenore saw that, she felt convinced, by some 
subtle instinct, that she need not fear Mrs. Boghey. 

“Have you been used to having him indoors with 
you } ” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Would you like him indoors here?” 

“Very much, if you have no objection.” 

“I have no objection.” 

“ Thank you — you are very good.” 

Mrs. Boghey raised her hand as if to dismiss that 
subject from discussion. 

“Now we must come to business. Do you know at 
all what your duties here will be ? ” 

“Not very well. I think you want me to read to 
you a good deal.” 

“Yes, r shall want you for that at times ; but I have 
still good sight, although I have had warnings, which 
make me feel anxious to save it somewhat. For an 


II3 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


hour or two each day, I shall require to be read to. 
That will not fatigue you ? ” 

Lenore was surprised at the question. 

“ Oh, no ! I should like to read as long as ever you 
wish.” 

“And I shall want you to write my letters for me, 
for the most part. I am not fond of writing, and it 
fatigues me. You write a clear, legible hand which I 
like ; it is neither a school-girl’s niggle nor an affectation 
of masculine boldness.” 

Lenore smiled. 

“I hope it will continue to give satisfaction.” 

“Then I shall want you to drive out with me each 
day. I always drive if the weather will permit, and 
shall request you to accompany me.” 

‘ ‘ I shall be very pleased. ” 

“And after dinner — I dine at eight, and you will dine 
with me, of course — I shall be much obliged if you will 
remain with me for awhile, until you wish to go to 
your room. My medical adviser has spoken very 
strongly to me upon the necessity of working my brain 
less, and of seeing more society. I have yielded this 
much to him — that I will remain for an hour or more 
in the drawing-room after dinner, instead of coming 
back at once to this room ; and as my own company 
is exceedingly distasteful to me when my mind is un- 
occupied, I shall ask you to pass that time with me. It 
will be but a dismal office for you ; but we grow selfish 
as we grow old, and exact services which we would 
never have rendered ourselves in our youth. It is the 
way of the world, you see.” 

All this explanation had been given in the hard, dry, 
formal tone which seemed natural to Mrs. Boghey. 
She seemed to put aside the question of Lenore’s posi- 


LENOKE^S ARRIVAL, 


I13 

tion as a salaried servant, and to treat her as though 
she had been a guest in the house. It almost embar- 
rassed Lenore to be so considered. 

“Mrs. Boghey,” she said gently and sincerely, “you 
know, and I know, that I owe you every attention that 
lies in my power to offer ; but please believe me when 
I say that I am most anxious to be able to do anything 
to make you feel less lonely, and that it will be a 
pleasure to be allowed to be as much of a companion 
to you as you will permit.’’ 

“Thank you, my dear,” answered Mrs. Boghey in a 
somewhat softened tone. “ I believe you ; although I 
am not given to believing protests Of the kind from 
others. For the rest, you can amuse yourself as you 
will about the house and garden. As you understand 
gardening and such-like matters, I shall be grateful if you 
will overlook things a little, and let me know what 
goes on. You need not be afraid to give orders ; all the 
men will have orders to do what you tell them. Camp- 
bell — that is my maid — is very good and completely 
trustworthy ; but she is, after all, only a servant, and 
cannot carry about with her any weight of authority. 
You will be able to do so ; and from what Mrs. David- 
son has told me I have every confidence that you will 
not take undue advantage of the trust reposed in you.” 

“But, Mrs. Boghey 

“Well?’^ 

“ How can I give orders to your servants .? How can 
I know what your wishes would be } ” 

“You can ask me, or you can act on your own 
judgment ; I care very little which. I have neither the 
health nor the inclination to look after things myself; 
but I do not want any disorder or waste in or about my 
^establishment. One of my reasons for wishing for a 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


II4 

companion is that I may be able to learn more as to 
what goes on about me. Your country life and ex- 
perience will stand us in good stead, because your 
knowledge is practical, whilst most people’s is mere 
theory. ” 

“ I shall be very glad to do anything I can,” an- 
swered Lenore, “ only — only — do you think the ser- 
vants will like a second mistress, or do as I suggest ? ” 

“ Whether they approve or not is a matter of no con- 
sequence, and I will soon teach them who is mistress 
here. But if you think, Lenore Annandale, that they 
will resent your control because you receive a salary 
from me, you are much mistaken. Not a soul in this 
house, not even Campbell, is aware on what footing 
you stand, nor knows that you are not here simply as 
my visitor. I do not wish the contrary to be known, 
so I ask you not to mention it. And now, good-night ; 
you have had a long and weary day, and it is time you 
went to rest. ” 




CHAPTER XL 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

i ENORE woke next morning with a start of surprise, 
^ and wondered where she could be. 

She had slept soundly all night, the dreamless, 
restful sleep that comes of a wearied body and a mind 
free from care ; and now that morning had come, she 
woke refreshed and invigorated. 

There was a sound beneath her windows of the 
washing of waves beneath, and springing up, Lenore 
drew her curtain and looked out. 

What a glorious sight it was ! 

The sea lay tossing in all its restless beauty just 
below ; the waves broke against the crags and washed 
the base of the rocky isthmus upon the summit of 
which the house was built. In shore the water was a 
deep green color, flecked, and in places covered, with 
snowy foam ; farther out it lay laughing and dimpling 
in the morning sunlight like a happy living thing at 
play ; and the sea-gulls flew hither and thither, uttering 
their curious discordant cry, and dipping their while 
wings in the waves as they skimmed over the sparkling 
surface of the water. 

“Plow beautiful!” cried Lenore, “Oh! I must 
dress and get down to it." 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


1 16 

It was but six o’clock when the girl left her room, 
and made her way carefully downstairs to the hall, 
which managed to look almost bright in the early light 
of a summer’s morning. 

Early as it was, however, there were sounds of life in 
the house, and soon Lenore encountered the smiling 
Annie dusting out one of the lower rooms. 

^‘Canlget out, Annie?” she asked. ‘‘I want to 
go down to the sea.” 

“Oh, ay, mem ! Ell open the door for ye.” 

‘ ‘ Do you know where my dog is ? ’’ 

“Oh, ay, mem ! He’s doon in the yard. Shall I 
bring him up ? ” 

“Please, if you would,” answered Lenore ; and soon 
there was the sound of pattering footsteps, and Colin 
rushed like a whirlwind through some dim back-passage 
and flung himself upon her. 

The smiling Annie appeared in th-e rear, somewhat 
breathless from the attempt to keep up with her 
charge. 

“Eh, but he’s a bonny black doggie,” she said, in 
honest admiration of Colin’s glossy coat and expressive 
eyes. “ He’ll be a fine protector to ye, mem.” 

So Lenore and Colin started off upon their ramble, 
and made their way down to the edge of the cliffs 
where they could watch the play of the water beneath, 
and the lovely blending of sea and sky in the distance, 
and listen to the ceaseless music of the waves, of 
which the girl felt she could never tire. 

She had brought out her little red Bible with her, to 
do her morning’s reading, sitting beside the margin of 
the sea. Such a scene as she now looked upon, so 
grand, and yet so lovely, seemed to bring her very 
near to God, and as she read the beautiful words of 


Fiji ST IMPRESSIONS. 


I17 

tenderness or reproach, warning or pardon, her eyes 
tilled with unwonted tears, and everything swam as in 
a dazzling golden mist before her. 

“I wish they could all see it — Philip, and Marjory, 
and Duff, and all of them. It seems strange to be so 
very far away from them all ; but I suppose it is just 
that which makes us cling closer to God. How good 
He is ! always making up to us — and more than mak- 
ing up — for all the little losses we meet with in 
life. Once, the mere thought of leaving Cottesmere 
would almost have broken my heart ; and now I am 
here in this beautiful place, with work to do, and 
a friend to love — for I believe 1 shall love her — and a 
heart as happy, if not quite as light, as the one I used 
to carry about. I thought the trouble was such a bad 
one, and God has helped me through so well, that the 
bitterness is all gone now. He does indeed watch 
over us ; our lives are in His hand. ‘ The Eternal 
God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting 
arms. ' " 

Lenore smiled a deep, inward smile, and gazed out 
over the shining sea. 

“ I wonder what is the story of that strange, lonely 
woman, and what has brought that awful look of fear 
and horror upon her face. It looks as though it had 
been stamped there by some dreadful scene, which can 
never be effaced from her memory. And there is such 
deep, deep sadness written on every line of her face. 
How I wish that I could help to smooth some of them 
out, and bring happier ones to take their place. I won- 
der how much I shall be able to do — how much she 
will let me do for her. I wonder, does she know, 
does she realize that the ‘ everlasting arms ' are un- 
derneath, and that she has only to rest in them, and 


8 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


then all her troubles will seem to melt away. I won- 
der if she knows — or if she knows, and is like Dora, 
and cannot gain comfort from the knowledge. I won- 
der what lies behind that cold, hard exterior.” 

Thus Lenore mused, as she sat by the sea, and 
paced up and down the rocky pathways ; and then, 
when the sun rose higher in the sky, she bent her steps 
towards the house, and entered this time by way of 
the gardens. 

Roses were in full bloom on many a bush and tree, 
and Lenore gathered a fragrant, dewy handful before 
she went indoors again. 

Breakfast w'ould be at nine, Campbell had told her 
over- night, and she and Mrs. Boghey were to take it 
together. There was time for Lenore to run up to her 
room and smooth her hair, which the wind had ruffled 
somewhat. She fastened one deep red rose in the front 
of her simple, light, morning dress, and after tying up 
the remainder in a tasteful way, she took them down- 
stairs to the breakfast room. 

Mrs. Boghey was already seated at the table in a stiff- 
backed arm-chair, although the urn had not yet been 
brought in. 

“Good-morning, Lenore Annandale,” she said, in her 
stiff, cold way. “I hear you have been an early riser 
this morning.” 

“Yes, I have had a delightful breath of sea-wind and 
sunshine ; and see what a liberty I have taken already. 
I have gathered a bunch of your roses ; but I thought I 
might be allowed to, because they are for you.” 

And Lenore, placing her bouquet in Mrs. Boghey’s 
calmly extended hand, stooped her head, and just 
dropped the lightest of kisses on the cold white brow. 

Mrs. Boghey started slightly, and a thrill seemed to 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS, 


II9 

ran through her. Lenore feared she had been too for- 
ward, too familiar. 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon, ” she said, with frank humility. 

It was a liberty ; but I have always been used to kiss 
people.” 

Mrs. Boghey held out her hand — the hand which did 
not grasp the flowers — and the thin, white face, without 
smiling, softened in such a marvellous way that Lenore 
looked in wonder at it, and saw how beautiful it could 
yet be. 

“ Kiss me again, my dear,” she said quietly, and with 
the very least suspicion of a quiver in her voice. “I 
think it is years since any young lips have kissed mine. 
It was the force of old memories that startled me. Do 
not you ever be afraid of me, Lenore ; I know by in- 
stinct where I can trust, and where I can love.” 

She broke off suddenly, as though afraid to say too 
much ; and the servant at that moment entered with 
the breakfast. 

Mrs. Boghey motioned Lenore to the seat facing her, 
and said : 

“Take the urn to Miss Annandale. Will you pour 
out tea, my dear.? I seldom feel strong in the morning 
now, and small duties fatigue me.” 

Mrs. Boghey sat quiet during the meal, the bunch of 
roses beside her wafting their fragrance up to her each 
moment, as they lay in their fresh beauty upon the 
white cloth. 

Lenore waited on her with tender, watchful care, 
coaxing her to eat by the dainty way in which she 
prepared the food, and talking brightly all the while, of 
the wonders she had seen that morning in her early 
walk, and contrasting by graphic word pictures the 
differences she already detected between the beauties 


120 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


of her new home and those of the one she had left be- 
hind. 

Mrs. Boghey said very little, but she seemed to listen 
with a certain amount of pleasure to the girl’s talk, and 
Lenore felt rewarded for the efforts she had made, when 
at the close of the meal her hearer said with a kind of 
sad approbation : 

“I think my doctor will be satisfied with his new 
prescription. Thank you, my dear, for trying to amuse 
and interest a sour old woman like me.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Boghey ! ” exclaimed Lenore. 

“ Well, my dear, are you shocked at my candor? ” 

“I cannot bear to hear you speak so.” 

“It is true, Lenore Annandale; that is why I speak 
so. Forewarned is forearmed, and you will soon find 
out that what I call myself, I am. ” 

“If you were,” Lenore ventured to remark with a 
little smile, “ I do not think you would call yourself so.” 

“What are you going to do with yourself this morn- 
ing?” was the next question. 

“I do not know. What would you like me to do? 
What can I do for you ? ” 

“ Nothing immediately. At twelve o’clock you may 
come and read the paper to me, if you will. I shall be 
busy till then ; you can do what you please.” 

Mrs. Boghey rose slowly from the table, and gathered 
up her letters. 

“Do you have prayers here or in the hall?” asked 
Lenore innocently, wondering whether the family 
prayers in a household like this would resemble the 
quiet, devotional little service conducted by Philip each 
morning in the hall. 

“I do not have family prayer at all,” answered Mrs. 
Boghey quietly. “ I am not equal to the exertion.” 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS, 


121 


Lenore was silent, not knowing what to say, and a 
kind of chill fell upon her. 

“I dare say you would like to go into the garden 
again," said INIrs. Boghey. “There is a good deal to 
see. I dare say you will make yourself happy there for 
an hour or two." 

“Won’t you come too for a little while?" asked 
Lenore eagerly. “ It is so pretty out there, and so warm 
that you need not be afraid of sitting out. Let me 
get you a shawl and a comfortable chair. I am sure 
you would enjoy it if you would only try. Do 
come ! " 

Mrs. Boghey made a faint protest, said something 
about never having done such a thing in her life ; but 
something in Lenore’s eagerness, or in her own melan- 
choly indifference made her concede the point very 
quickly. 

In five minutes the strangely assorted pair were 
sitting together in a shady, sheltered corner which 
overlooked a large extent of garden ground, and were 
enjoying each in her own way the novelty of the 
situation. 

“I cannot tell why you made me come, Lenore 
Annandale," said Mrs. Boghey. “I never did a thing 
like this before.’’ 

“Is it not very pleasant?’’ asked Lenore, smiling 
archly. “Are you not very glad you came ? " 

“It is pleasant, I suppose ; but I do not feel that 
there is pleasure in it for me." 

“ Why not, Mrs. Boghey?" 

“ Because the power of enjoyment has long since 
left me." 

“ Perhaps it will come back again," suggested Lenore 
gently. 


122 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


“Never!’' answered Mrs. Boghey in a quick, agi- 
tated way ; and a glance into the white, set face warned 
Lenore not to continue the theme. 

After a short silence she began again on a safer 
topic : 

“What a large garden you have. It must need a 
great many gardeners.” 

‘ ‘ I dare say it does. My head-man arranges all that. 
I cannot be troubled with details.” 

“ But garden details are so interesting.” 

“To people who have minds at leisure to be inter- 
ested. And so you like my garden, child ? ” 

“ Yes, very much.” 

“ Does it look to you all that a garden should ? ” 

“ Well — not quite.” 

“ What is wanted then } ” 

“ I can see a good many things that want attending 
to. The lawn there has been badly mown — see how 
uneven the lines are ! — and several of the paths want 
picking over and rolling ; and none of the turf edges 
are properly clipped, and they have got uneven too ; 
they want regularly edging all the way along.” 

“ Why, child, how do you know all that ? ” 

“ I don’t know — it comes by nature, I think. Philip 
was so very particular.” 

“ Who is Philip ?” 

“ Philip Egremont. You know I have lived with the 
Egremonts almost ever since I can remember. They 
are not rich, and we had not regular gardeners ; so the 
farm-men often came in to do the harder work, and we 
directed them, and often helped ourselves. I suppose I 
learned in that way ; and Philip was so very particular, 
that I think he made us particular too.” 

“ Well, do you see anything else wrong ? ” 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


123 

I think you mig-ht make the garden a great deal 
prettier by altering it and moving the things a little.’^ 

“How?" 

Lenore explained some of the alterations that sug- 
gested themselves, and Mrs. Boghey assented with 
some show of interest. 

“ Certainly — quite so — you are quite right. But why 
do the men not see these things ? " 

Lenore laughed. 

“ Perhaps they do not think." 

“ They should think, then — they should use their 
eyes ; and at least they should do their own work de- 
cently. Now that you point it out, I see these edges 
are shocking. They offend my eye. Why cannot the 
men do their work properly ? " 

“ They never do unless they are looked after." 

“ Then you will look after them in future, if you 
please, my dear. Nothing displeases me more than to 
feel that things about the place are not going on as they 
should do. Hampden," she called out to her head- 
man, who happened to pass at a short distance, “this 
lady will in future give you instructions about the 
gardens. I am not satisfied with the look of things. 
Miss Annandale will speak to you about some altera- 
tions I want made. For the future you will take your 
orders from her." 

The man touched his hat and went on his way, with 
a respectful glance at Lenore. 

“ You do not mind undertaking that for me, do you, 
my dear ? " 

“ Oh, no, Mrs. Boghey, I shall be very pleased." 

“ I think, my dear, if you do not mind, you had 
better call me aunt when there is anybody to hear us. 
I do not mean that I have any intention of passing you 


124 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


off as my niece ; but it is just as well for people to think 
that there is some bond of association between us. Al- 
ready I look upon you as my young friend, as well as 
companion, and there is no reason why we should not 
let the world think that my young companion has not 
been also my friend.” 

Lenore did not see exactly why any deception, how- 
ever mild, need be practised, and had she known that 
the wish arose from a desire, on Mrs. Boghey's part, to 
mystify and dismay her nearest relatives, she might 
have declined to be a party to it ; as it was, however, 
she said gently that she would call her patroness what- 
ever she wished, and before the morning was out the 
“ aunt ” fell naturally and easily from her lips. 

After an hour of the garden Mrs. Boghey grew tired, 
and went in, Lenore with her, and then a note was 
written, and a few orders dispatched to different house- 
hold dignitaries. Then she said she was fatigued, and 
wished to lie down ; so that Lenore had better go out 
until luncheon time, and read to her in the afternoon. 

Later on Lenore was to learn that, in spite of the 
loneliness of her surroundings, Mrs. Boghey was not 
without relatives, although they were not hers by 
blood, but connected only through her marriage. 

Mr. and Mrs. Money, with their two children, Her- 
bert and Edith, lived at Inverbervie, some five or six 
miles from Auckness Point, and endeavored to keep 
upon friendly terms with their peculiar and eccentric 
relative at the Castle. 

This endeavor, however, was prompted by no love 
for the stern, silent woman who reigned there ; but 
merely because they coveted her great wealth, and 
fondly trusted that, at her death, they would reap sub- 
stantial benefit from her accumulated riches. Little as 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


25 


they liked her in reality, they made great professions 
of affection, and had learned with distrust and dismay 
of the “new craze” which had entered Mrs. Boghey’s 
head. Who or what Lenore was, they had no idea ; 
but they had heard of her expected arrival at Auckness, 
and were terribly alarmed by it. 

Mrs. Money was the leader in all schemes and plots. 
Her husband was lazy, and trusted to his wife’s diplo- 
macy ; her children were, as she said, culpably indif- 
ferent and careless. Herbert frequently told her frankly 
that Mrs. Boghey detested them all, and that bland- 
ishments were thrown away upon her. Edith was 
simply apathetic, and would take no trouble to 
please her aunt, whom she feared and disliked equally. 
Mrs. Money did what she could ; but between her and her 
silent kinswoman a certain nameless hostility existed, 
none the less marked because carefully veiled on one 
side, and coldly displayed upon the other. 

Lenore and Colin wandered down to the shore once 
more — this time to a rather more distant spot, and 
where a belt of smooth sand stretched away from 
under the shelter of the cliffs, and was now left smooth 
and trackless by the retiring tide. 

Lenore had not been to the water’s edge before, nor 
Colin either, and in all the experiences of his young 
life he had never met with anything half so perplexing 
and provoking as this great piece of water. 

He rushed valiantly forward to pieet an advancing 
wave, found it more powerful and more wet than he 
liked, and rushed barking before it, until it expended its 
strength and began ignominiously to retreat. Then, 
indeed, he felt the victory was his, and pursued it, bark- 
ing joyously, and snapping at the little receding crest 
of foam ; when, all in a moment, and without warning, 


126 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


up it would rise once more in all its old strength, and 
drive him headlong to the shore again. 

Lenore was so intent in watching Colin’s gambols, 
in laughing at his absurd alternations of triumph and 
dismay, and in encouraging him to meet and attack each 
advancing wave, that she did not hear the dull “ thud, 
thud,” of a horse’s feet approaching along the sand, and 
started when a young man reined up close beside 
her. 

More surprised still was she when he, politely raising 
his hat, addressed her thus : 

“ I^ray pardon the liberty I am taking, but have I 
not the pleasure of speaking to Miss Lenore Annan- 
dale ? ” 

Lenore bowed, feeling quite mystified at finding her- 
self already known. 

The young man dismounted, and drew his horse’s 
bridle through his arm. 

‘‘ I have ridden over from Inverbervie to see my 
aunt. I believe she usually lunches at this time. Will 
you allow me the pleasure of walking back with 
you ? ’’ 

“ Is Mrs. Boghey your aunt ? ’’ 

“Yes ; and that reminds me that I have omitted the 
ceremony of introducing myself. My name is Herbert 
Money.” 

Lenore was none the wiser ; but she held her peace, 
and merely bent her head somewhat. 

Herbert looked approvingly at her as she stepped 
freely and easily along beside him, and thought that the 
photograph, which he had seen, did not do justice 
either to the delicacy of her features or the grace of her 
figure. 

How is my aunt to-day ? ” 



She did not hear the “ thud ” of the horse’s feet approaching. 


# 


Page 126 





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FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


127 

Pretty well, I think. She was sitting out in the 
garden for an hour this morning, and seemed to enjoy 
herself. ” 

“ Sitting out in the garden ! ” echoed Herbert— “ en- 
joying herself! ” and he whistled. 

“It is much better she should be out more,’^ said 
Lenore. 

“ Oh, I dare say ; only she is so obstinate, she never 
will change her ways for anyone. *' 

“ I do not agree with you at all, ” said Lenore with a 
little warmth. 

Herbert glanced sideways at her, and said no more. 

As they walked up the drive they met the head gar- 
dener, and Lenore paused. 

“Mr. Hampden,” she said, “will you get the turf 
along the paths edged and clipped. It is not at all 
tidy, and your mistress wishes it seen to. ” 

The man touched his hat and passed on. Herbert 
glanced again at Lenore. 

“Are you boss here now ? ” he asked, with a 
half-careless, half-malicious laugh. 

Lenore did not detect the malice, and she laughed 
too. 

“I am to be ‘boss,' as you call it, of the garden. 
Mrs. Boghey has not energy to look after things, and I 
am used to it. ” 

Then they went indoors together. 

Mrs. Boghey received her nephew coldly, Lenore 
thought, and gave the needful invitation to lunch in 
anything but a cordial way. 

Herbert was cheerful, almost affectionate, and talked 
with fluency during the repast. 

“I hear you achieved great things this morning — a, 
morning walk.” 


28 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Lenore coaxed me out into the garden for a short 
while, if that is what you mean.” 

“ I hope it did you good.” 

“At least it did me no harm.” 

“I hope you will get stronger soon.” 

“ Thank you. ” 

And the cold dry, tone made Lenore look up with a 
glance of surprise. 

Herbert colored slightly, and held his peace. 

“ Did you have a pleasant walk this morning with 
your dog, my dear } ” asked Mrs. Boghey in a very dif- 
ferent tone. 

“Yes, thank you, aunt, very.” 

Herbert looked up quickly. 

“And you will be ready for a drive with me this after- 
noon ? ” 

“Oh, yes; I shall enjoy it.” 

“ I will take you to a beautiful spot ; I think you are 
fond of natural scenery.” 

“Yes, very.” 

Herbert did not stay long after the conclusion of the 
repast. 

When he arrived home and entered the drawing-room, 
it was with a comically rueful face. 

“Well.?” said Mrs. Money. 

“Well .? ” echoed Edith. 

“ Well, ladies,” returned Herbert, with a solemn face, 
“all that I can say is that in my humble opinion it’s all 
up.” 

“What do you mean .? ” 

“That Miss Lenore Annandale holds the winning card 
— unless the aspect of the game should change very 
materially — and that she has the brains to use it ” 

‘‘ Do explain yourself more clearly,” said his mother 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS, 


129 

impatiently. ^‘What have you made out about this 
girl?” 

“That she is pretty, graceful, ladylike. That she 
calls Mrs. Boghey ‘ aunt. ’ That she takes the head of 
the table and begins already to manage the household. 
If that is not enough before the first twenty-four hours 
are over, I don’t know what is ! ” 

‘•Aunt!” echoed Mrs. Money, aghast. “Is she a 
relative then ? No ; it is impossible I ” 

“If she is not, then it is the more marked,” said Her- 
bert, who was not above the pleasure of teasing his 
mother, for whom he had no very great affection or re- 
spect. “I’ll bet you anything you like, this ‘new 
craze ’ will settle the matter. We shall never see a 
penny of the old woman’s money.” 

“It is a scandalous shame!” quoth Mrs. Money 
hotly ; “it shall be stopped if possible ; I will see what 
I can do.” 

“ You had better leave things alone,” advised Her- 
bert lacidly. “You’ll only make a mess of it.” 

9 



% 



CHAPTER XII. 

A STRANGE WOMAN. 

\T was not long before Mrs. Money and her daughter 
^ drove over to Auckness Point. 

They were told that Mrs. Boghey was resting after 
her drive, and could not be disturbed. 

Mrs. Money then asked for Miss Annandale, and was 
informed that she was in the garden, but should be sent 
for with as little delay as possible. 

So the visitors were ushered into the drawing-room, 
and cast curious glances round them, detecting every- 
where subtle and graceful changes in a room which, 
ever since they had known it, had remained the same 
in every minute detail, grim-looking and formal, like its 
owner. 

“ Mamma ! ” cried Edith excitedly, “ how different it 
all looks ! See, there are flowers everywhere, and the 
china is standing about the room instead of being all 
stuffed away in the cupboards ; and those hideous covers 
are off the furniture, and everything looks so pretty and 
bright. How has Miss Annandale managed to get it 
so ? Aunt Boghey never could bear the very least 
change in anything ; and the uglier everything was, 
and the more dark and forbidding it looked, the better 
she seemed pleased. 




A STKANGE IV0MAA\ 


31 


“This Miss Annandale is evidently a very bold, for- 
ward girl,” answered Mrs. Money severely. “ Lacking 
all sense of delicacy and good taste. I wonder how 
your poor, dear aunt can put up with it.” 

And then the door opened and in came Lenore, in 
her white dress, her garden gloves in her hand, and 
her hair just ruffled into little waves by the fresh breeze 
blowing off the sea. 

She received her guests with quiet courtesy, and with 
an ease of manner which was a further aggravation to 
Mrs. Money. She sat down fully resolved to cross- 
question her, and discover what kind of tie it was that 
existed between her and Mrs. Boghey. 

“ We were all so pleased. Miss Annandale, to hear ot 
your arrival here. Poor, dear Mrs. Boghey leads so 
sad and secluded a life, that the advent of any young 
friend who knows* and cares for her, must be a great 
source of pleasure and profit to her.” 

This was a feeler, and Lenore knew that it was. She 
had not herself the smallest desire to conceal from the 
world the fact that she was a stranger and a hireling in 
the house, but after Mrs. Boghey’s hints and implied 
wishes on the subject, she did not feel at liberty to 
explain her real position, more especially to the 
Moneys. 

So she answered quietly : 

“I hope the plan will answer. I shall do what I can 
to cheer and comfort her.” 

“I am sure you will, my dear, if you will permit me 
to call you so. But perhaps you will allow me to give 
you one little hint. My poor, dear sister-in-law is so 
very peculiar ” 

Lenore bent her head, as if to assent to hearing the 
hint, but her face was firm and grave. 


132 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Is very peculiar,” continued Mrs. Money smoothly, 
“and needs most careful management. She is very 
conservative in her tastes, very averse to all changes. 
I see here,” and Mrs. IMoncy glanced round the room, 
“a good many changes. Do you think, my dear, it is 
(piite wise.? is it not a little premature? So soon after 
your arrival too — I am sure you will excuse the hint. 
Of course you cannot know so much of poor, dear Mrs. 
Boghey’s tastes and feelings as I do.” 

“Mrs. Boghey and I meide the alterations together,” 
answered Lenore quietly, though her eyes began to 
shine somewhat indignantly. “We both think the 
room much improved. Do not you ? ” 

Mrs. Money was taken aback somewhat by Lenore s 
composed and fearless manner. She was growing irri- 
tated and uneasy, but she hastened to make a smiling 
rejoinder : 

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Annandale ; I am 
sure you will not take offence. I thought, perhaps, it 
had been done with intent to please and surprise Mrs. 
Boghey. We have so often planned little surprises for 
her, and have only given vexation instead of pleasure. 
And I could not help fancying that you, perhaps, had 
done the same.” 

“Oh, no,” answered Lenore in the same quiet way. 

We talk everything over together. I do not act with- 
out consulting her, but if I did anything to displease 
her, she would prefer, I think, to tell me^of it herself.” 

“Impudent!” was INI rs. Money’s mental comment, 
“ trying to set me down like that ! ” 

Lenore had covered the somewhat awkward pause 
by ringing for tea. It was an institution Mrs. Boghey 
had never sanctioned, the social afternoon tea, and the 
guests were amazed to see the silver tray carried in as a 


A STRANGE WOMAN, 


133 


matter of course — still more so when Campbell came 
in for a cup for her mistress,' with a request that Miss 
Annandale would go upstairs, when she was disen- 
gaged. 

The guests did not stay long, and they did not learn 
any of the things they were anxious to discover. Le- 
nore parried their questions by the dexterity of perfect 
simplicity, and Mrs. Money went away baffled and 
angry, feeling certain that “ this upstart girl,” as she 
called her, had been warned against them by Mrs. 
Boghey, and extremely indignant, as she phrased it, 

“ at the disgraceful way in which she played daughter 
of the house to them, and patronized those who had far 
the best right to be there.” 

Lenore went upstairs to Mrs. Boghey. 

“ Well, my dear, are your guests gone 

“Yes, aunt.” 

“ And how did you like them ? ” 

“I hardly know; but they did not like me, I am 
sure. ” 

“Probably not,” answered Mrs. Boghey dryly. “I 
never imagined they would.” 

“Why so.?” asked Lenore laughing. 

“ I have my reasons,” replied the old lady, nodding 
her head slowly, “ but I shall not tell them to you.” 

Lenore said no more, and presently Mrs. Boghey 
added, with cold, bitter irony : 

“ You see, my dear, they love me so dearly that they 
cannot bear to see anyone about me who might draw 
my love away from them. It pains their sense of de- 
votion. Great love is always apt to beget jealousy, as 
I dare say you know.'’ ' 

Something in the extreme bitterness of the tone hurt 
Lenore. It seemed to express such loneliness and des- 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


134 

olation. She took one withered hand and kissed it 
softly. 

“ Dear aunt, do not talk so.’' 

Why should I not ” 

“They are your relatives ; they speak with affection 
of you. Why should you distrust them ? " 

“I will not teach you worldly wisdom before your 
time, Lenore Annandale. So long as you can retain 
your ignorance and innocence, do so." 

The more Lenore saw of Boghey the more she 
pitied her, for it seemed as though she had drunk to 
the very dregs the cup of sorrow — the gall and bitter- 
ness of life ; and had become herself embittered and 
depressed beyond all hope of cure. 

What the terrible sorrows of her life had been Le- 
nore did not know ; what awful mysterious grief over- 
shadowed her, and poisoned at their source all possi- 
ble fountains of happiness, the girl had yet to learn. 
What she did know was that the lonely, melancholy 
woman, whose home she now shared, sorrowed as 
one without hope ; and her deep and prayerful wish 
was that it might lie within her power, by patience 
and by the influence of tender and thoughtful love, to 
bring one ray of Divine Love into that sad heart ; and 
when once that light had penetrated there, the girl 
knew well that all the desolation and despair must flee 
away. 

Her life at Auckness Point passed quietly and un- 
eventfully, and the days slipped so quickly by that 
she could hardly realize their rapid flight. 

Many hours were spent with Mrs. Boghey, reading 
to her, writing for her, or, when she was fatigued and 
wished to rest, playing and singing softly to her sweet, 
old-fashioned melodies, to which she loved to listen. 


A STRANGE WOMAN. 


135 

and which seemed to soothe her better than anything 
else. 

“It drowns thought, child,’' she sometimes said. 
“ I used to dread to leave my books, sorely as I need 
rest sometimes, because the thoughts I dread so much 
would aways come crowding into my head. But your 
music drives them away — carries me back to the days 
before J knew sin or sorrow, fear or despair. “ Child,” 
she once said, rising up upon her elbow, and transfix- 
ing Lenore by the terrible, despairing look in her dark, 
fiery eyes, “if ever 1 am dying, and you are with me — 
1 believe you will be with me when I die, Lenore An- 
nandale — play music to me — let me have music. It 
may drive away despair. Remember what I have 
said — music.” 

Lenore came and knelt beside her, and took both 
the cold hands in her warm, tender grasp. Her eyes 
shone with rare feeling. 

“ Dear Mrs. Boghey, if I am with you when you die, 
I shall have for you some music — oh, so much more 
beautiful and comforting than any I have given you 
yet ! When you hear that music, I am sure despair can 
never come near you.” 

Earnestly the two women looked into each other’s 
eyes, but no explanation was asked or offered ; only 
from that day forth a closer bond of union seemed 
established between them. 

July and August slipped quickly and happily by. 
The garden gave Lenore much occupation during her 
leisure hours, and the drives with Mrs. Boghey were a 
source of constant enjoyment. And then her patroness 
found out that she was fond of riding, and a saddle- 
horse was at once put at her disposal ; and every 
morning, before the rest of the household was fully 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


136 

aroused, she and Colin enjoyed together a glorious gal- 
lop along the grand coast road, or through the dark, 
whispering woods, or across the boundless, breezy 
moorland. 

These morning rides were to Lenore a source of un- 
mixed delight, and she seemed to drink in a supply 
of life and health and happiness, which supported 
her through any amount of the dreariness which was 
sometimes forced upon her during the day. 

For as the summer days shortened, and the chill 
breath of autumn crept through the house — not the 
glorious, golden autumn of the south, but the keen, 
fresh, chilly northern season — Mrs. Boghey’s face grew 
ever more gloomy, and depression seemed to hang 
about her like a cloud. 

And when the harvest was all in, and the long winter 
seemed settling over that northern home, it needed all 
Lenore’s equable and joyous spirits to struggle against 
the feeling of gloom, which seemed to wrap up the 
whole household as in a veil. 

Lenore,” said Mrs. Boghey once, as the girl was 
saying good-night, “you will have to take your meals 
alone to-morrow, and you will not see me at all. I 
shall not require you. ” 

Lenore gazed wonderingly into the white, sad face, 
which looked strangely set and unearthly to-night. The 
girl almost quailed before the terrible look of misery in 
the dark, hollow eyes, and the question she had almost 
framed died away upon her lips. 

“Very well,” she answered very low, kissed the cold 
cheek, and withdrew in silence, feeling a strange sense 
of awe creep over her. 

It was a relief to find the fire blazing cheerily in her 
own room, and Colin ready to welcome her, whilst 


A STRANGE WOMAN, 


137 

Annie Mclver was in the inner room, putting away in 
the drawers some clothes she had been brushing. 

When she came out Lenore said : 

“I think I will not take my ride to-morrow, Annie, 
if you will send word to the stables.” 

“Ay, mem, that I will.” 

The girl looked at her half curiously, half timidly, 
and said after a moment’s hesitation : 

“ Well a' be glad when the morrow be past, for the 
poor leddy’s sake.” 

‘ ‘ What is to-morrow, Annie ? ” asked Lenore with a 
slight shiver. 

“ Eh, mem, has she na’ telled ye? Tis the anniver- 
sary”~here Annie lowered her voice to a whisj>er — 
“ the anniversary, ye ken ; and lis a sair lang day for 
my leddy, poor dear ; and right glad we are a’ when lis 
past. ” 

“What anniversary do you mean, Annie?” asked 
Lenore, almost unconsciously lowering her voice too. 
“ Is it the anniversary of a death ? ” 

“Eh, mem, Em thinking lis waur nor a death,” an- 
swered Annie cautiously. “ But I dinna rightly ken — 
naebody kens, only my leddy and Mrs. Campbell. But 
some sair trouble cam’ on that day ; and ’tis always 
keppit like a day o’ the dead. ” 

Annie, who under Lenore’s instruction was learning 
English phrasing and English pronunciation, always 
lapsed more or less into her own dialect in moments of 
excitement, although she made efforts from time to 
time to regain her ground and emulate Lenore’s smooth- 
ness of speech. 

“What was it that happened? Do you not know, 
Annie ? ” asked Lenore. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


138 

“Nay, mem, that I do not. ’T was something dread- 
ful, but what it was I canna tell.” 

“ Was it to her or to her husband that something hap- 
pened .? ” 

Annie lowered her voice still more, as she answered : 

“They do say ’twas something to do with Mister 
Alan and his wild ways. But we’re all bidden never to 
speak Mister Alan’s name.” 

“Is he her son .? ” 

“Ay, mem, he was, but he's dead.” 

“ Did you ever see him } ’’ 

“Nay; for he died jest after I cam’ here; and he 
hadna been near the place for lang years before. I 
think he did something awful bad, and had to hide 
away. But I dinna ken anything ; ’tis only what we say 
among oursel’s. Maybe I shouldna have said aught.” 

“ Never mind, Annie, I will not betray your con- 
fidence. Good-night.” 

Lenore slept restlessly that night, and was disturbed 
by dim and terrible visions. She woke to the sound of 
the howling of the wind, the beating of the snow 
upon her windows, and the sullen roaring of the sea 
beneath. It seemed as though the winter was come 
indeed. 

It was a strange, dreary day. The storm raged and 
howled without, and precluded all possibility of leaving 
the house. Mrs. Boghey remained all the day ch^ly 
shut up in her own room, to which nobody was acT' 
mitted except Campbell. 

Lenore had to find occupation as best she might. 
She wrote long letters home, telling them any details of 
her present life which she thought might interest them ; 
and she wrote at rather unusual length to Terence. 

She had kept her promise about writing to him, and 


A STJiANGE WOMAN. 


139 

had done so regularly. At a distance old associations 
were stronger than new, and she could write more 
affectionately and more trustfully than she could speak. 

His letters at first had been frequent, and long, and 
very full of love. Later on they grew less frequent, but 
were as tender as ever, with continual allusions to hopes 
as to the future. For the last few weeks these allusions 
had been wanting, somewhat to Lenore’s relief; yet he 
always wrote very lovingly, and his letters were always 
full of tender and caressing phrases, which Lenore could 
read more patiently than she could hear. 

He said little of himself or his own affairs ; but from 
Madeline she heard that he was being very steady and 
careful, and that Philip was much relieved. Lenore’s 
influence, it was supposed, was working this reform ; 
but the girl felt that it was very small influence that she 
at a distance could exercise over a nature like Terence’s, 
and she was more inclined to believe that it was from a 
higher and stronger motive that this change proceeded, 
and was full of hope that the lessons he had been so 
anxious to learn had not been learned in vain. 

From Marjory’s letters she gathered that Terence was 
not as much at the Farm as they had hoped from his 
near neighborhood ; but that might be because his 
occupations prevented frequent visits. Marjory evi- 
dently believed this was the sole and only cause, and 
Lenore did not allow herself to doubt. 

When her letters were all answered and put out for the 
post, Lenore wandered somewhat aimlessly about the 
house, hardly knowing how to pass the time ; when all 
at once it occurred to her that she had never explored 
the whole house, and that she had never entered any ol 
the rooms which lay at the end of the long corridor 
upon which her door opened. 


140 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


Rather surprised at herself for not having done so 
earlier, she made her way down the long, dim passage. 
It was very long and very dim, for the great window at 
the end was so bedewed with sea foam that it hardly 
let in sufficiency of light. Lenore went up to it and 
looked down. This wing of the house was built upon 
a point of rock which jutted into the sea, and the water 
seemed to wash up on each side almost to the foun- 
dations. To-day it was a wild scene upon which the 
girl looked out, the moaning waste of tossing, foaming 
water; it seemed as if it surrounded her, and would 
fain have engulfed the whole house. She shivered and 
turned away, and tried the door of the room nearest to 
her. It was locked, and there was no key in it. Lenore 
was surprised, as none of the other rooms in the house, 
so far as she knew, were kept locked ; but she tried the 
opposite door, and found that she could not gain en- 
trance there either. 

She discovered on further examination that the four 
rooms nearest to the window were kept locked, but all 
the others were open, and contained nothing of any in- 
terest. 

‘^Campbell,” she said, somewhat later in the day, as 
she met the maid in the hall, “would you please let me 
have the keys of the rooms at the end of my corridor } 
I have a fancy to go in and look at them.” 

The woman gave her a hurried, scared glance, as 
though startled. 

“I haven’t got ’ the keys, ma'am,” she answered; 
“my mistress keeps them.” 

“ Oh, does she ? ” returned Lenore equably. “Never 
mind then, Campbell.” 

But the woman lingered uneasily. 


A STRANGE WOMAN. 


141 

“You have not heard any noise there, ma’am, making 
you want to go in ? ” 

“Oh, no,'’ answered Lenore, smiling; “are they 
haunted rooms then, Campbell ? ” 

But she repented the careless question next moment, 
when she saw the gray shade of fear or horror which 
crept over the maid’s face. 

“Don’t jest about it. Miss Annadale,” she said sol- 
emnly; “for there’s more ways of haunting than one, 
and living spirits are more terrible than the dead.” 

Lenore was filled with awe, she knew not why ; for 
she did not understand what such wild words might 
mean. 

Campbell recovered from her emotion and added ‘. 

“ Ma’am, excuse the liberty; but never ask my mis- 
tress for those keys. ’Twould do more harm than you 
think for.” 

“I will not,” answered Lenore “ How is your mis- 
tress to-day, Campbell .? ” 

“Sadly, sadly, as she always is this last day of 
September. Oh, Miss Annandale, it goes to my heart 
to see her so bowed down — not one bit of hope or com- 
fort left to her. ” 

“Would she see me, Campbell — ^justfor a short time ? ” 

Campbell shook her head gloomily. 

“No, ma’am, she will see nobody at all to-day.” 

“Would you take her a little note if I were to write 
it?” asked the girl with quick inspiration. 

“Why, yes, ma’am, I will do that.” 

Lenore stepped into the study and wrote a few words 
on a paper, which she folded and gave to Campbell. 

The words were these ; 

“The Eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are 
the everlasting arms.” 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Campbell’s story. 

“/n^AMPBELL,” said Lenore in a low, quiet voice, so 
as not to disturb the weary sleeper who lay 
tranquilly upon the canopied bed, “ are you very tired 
with your watch ? ” 

“No, ma’am, I have had a very quiet time. She 
has only wakened once, and I have had some sleep 
myself. You are before your time, Miss Annandale. ” 

“ Yes,” answered Lenore, “ I woke up and could not 
get to sleep again. There are so many things that 
puzzle me, Campbell. I wish you could tell me a little 
about them. ” 

Ever since ]\Irs. Boghey had kept that last myste- 
rious “anniversary,” she had been laid up by a sharp 
attack of illness, or perhaps it should rather be called a 
complete prostration of strength, which had caused no 
small anxiety to her two faithful attendants, Campbell 
and Lenore. 

They had watched over her by night and day, sharing 
alike the fatigue and the anxiety ; and, as could hardly 
fail to be the case, a mutual confidence and liking had 
grown up between them. 

Their patient was now on a fair way to recovery, yet 
still the night watches continued as before ; and thus it 



CAMPBELL'S STORY, 


143 


came about that, at four o’clock one cold October 
morning-, Campbell and Lenore met in Mrs. Boghey’s 
room. 

It was a large, lofty room, and the bed with its half- 
closed curtains stood at some distance from the fire. 
There was no fear that their quiet voices would disturb 
the sleeper. When Mrs. Boghey slept at all, she slept 
soundly and well. 

In answer to Lenore ’s last speech, Campbell looked 
half-disturbed, half-relieved, and said slowly : “Surely, 
ma am, 1 would tell you the story and welcome, if I 
knew my mistress would let me.” 

“ I do not wish you to do anything she would not 
like,” returned Lenore. “ If it is a secret, I will notask 
any more.” 

“ I cannot think but what my lady would be glad 
you should know. ’Tis not so great a secret but what 
there’s many a one she trusts less knows it. These days 
when her mind has been wandering a bit, she has said 
many things that have puzzled you, I’m thinking. She 
has talked a good deal, has she not, Miss Annandale } ” 

“Yes,” answered Lenore ; “that is one reason why 
I asked if you could tell me the story. She talks just as 
if she thought I knew it, and seems troubled when I 
cannot make out her meaning or answer her questions.” 

“Yes,” said Campbell thoughtfully, “ I dare say she 
does. She likes you and trusts you, and I dare say she 
fancies in her poor, bewildered head that she has told 
you herself.” 

“I have fancied that too.” 

Campbell noiselessly made up the fire, and put the 
kettle on to boil. 

“You will be wanting a cup of tea. I’m thinking, 
ma’am; and I have not had mine yet. We can have a 


144 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


bit of talk while we drink our cups, and I’ll tell you all 
1 can that the mistress, I am sure, would like you to 
know. There are some things that 1 cannot tell to any- 
one — that only she and 1 know, or ever shall know, 
please God.” 

A certain feeling of awe crept over Lenore at the 
grave solemnity of Campbells tone. She knew by 
instinct, as well as by scattered sentences spoken by the 
sick woman, that she had a tragic story to hear, and she 
listened with deep interest. 

“I have been with my mistress nigh upon fifty 
years,” began Campbell, “and it would be strange if I 
did not know all her history. I was a slip of a girl 
when first I was engaged to attend upon her as waiting- 
maid. And she was a grand, beautiful young lady, 
just going out into the world.” 

Campbell paused and sighed as her thoughts flew 
back to those far-off days. 

“ She was beautiful. I’ve heard say that “the beau- 
tiful Miss Chaloner” was the toast of all the county. 
And she had lovers too, almost more than she could 
count ; for she was not only beautiful, but learned and 
accomplished, and an heiress also ; for she was an only 
child, and these lands and a great fortune were hers by 
right, upon the death of her father. 

“So she was courted and feted and toasted enough 
to have turned the heads of most ; but it never turned 
her head. She would laugh at her lovers behind their 
backs, mimic their airs and graces for my amusement 
and hers, when we were alone together, and it seemed 
as though she would have naught to say to any of them, 
and one after another they were sent away, and, yet 
others would always spring up and take their place.” 

“ But she did marry by-and-by. ” 


CAMPBELVS S7VRY. 


145 




*‘0h, ay, by-and-by she did. There came a gentle- 
man from the army, a Colonel Boghey, older than many 
of the rest, and he had been in foreign parts and had 
foCight in real battles, and could tell stories that would 
freeze the blood in your veins with horror or excitement. 
And the end of it was that he wooed and he won her ; 
and old Mr. Chaloner, who was too much wrapped up 
in his gout and his ague to take much care of his pretty 
daughter, gave his consent — the poor lamb had no 
mother to care for her ; and as he was so pressing and 
she so loving, the end of it was, before they had known 
each other but four short months, they were man and 
wife.” 

“Well,” asked Lenore, smiling somewhat sadly, 
“was it not a happy marriage.? ” 

Campbell shook her head mournfully. 

“ 'Tis hard to say what a marriage is like, when one 
of the pair dies before two years are out.” 

“ Did Colonel Boghey die so soon .? ” 

“Ay, he did, and to my thinking none too soon, if 
it be not wicked to say so. ” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“He would have broken her heart before someone 
else broke it. He had made a sad woman of her be- 
fore he was taken away.” 

“ How so .? ” 

“He had no real love for her — only an idle fancy, 
which soon wore itself out. It was her gold he loved, 
and it was for gold he married her. Two months after 
the marriage her father died, and everything he had be- 
came hers. He had lived always in the south for the 
sake of his health ; but this was the family estate, and 
it was here my master and mistress came to live. 

“And then he threw off the mask. anH «hr»wed what 
10 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


146 

he really was. He filled the house with his drunken, 
worthless associates, won the place such an ill name, 
that none of the neighbors would come near, insulted 
his wife in public and abused her in private, and 
showed her what a fiend a man can be.” 

“Oh, poor Mrs. Boghey !” exclaimed Lenore ; “no 
wonder she looks so sad.” 

“You see that my lady is not one to do things by 
halves. She had loved and trusted him wdth her whole 
heart and this was the return he made. Ay, ay, ’twas 
well he died when he did, or she must have died of 
grief — not but what it would have been a better and a 
happier thing for her to have died then, than to have 
seen the days she has seen.” 

Campbell sighed deeply. Lenore made no com- 
ment, but w'aited for her to go on. - 

“So my master died, as I say ; and my lady mourned 
'for him, for all his w'ickedness, because shediad loved 
him so well, and because death seems to kill all hard 
thoughts, and to make all memories tender and loving. 
'She mourned for him in a quiet way, and kept herself 
very much shut up. It was then I noticed the change 
in her, how she was losing all her gay young spirits 
and growing cold and reserved. She talked less and 
less even to me, and instead of being a bright, bonny, 
laughing girl, she became a pale, sad, careworn 
woman.” 

“I cannot fancy INIrs. Boghey could ever have been 
merry,” said Lenore, 

“Ah, but she was until she had learnt sorrow and 
distrust, and after that she was wholly changed. When 
her little son was born I hoped that she would be com- 
forted; but when she heard it was a boy, such a look 
of misery came into her face as I shall never forget. I 


CA MrBELU S S TOR Y. 


147 


said, ‘ Why, my dear ’ (I called her so sometimes, 
poor lamb), ‘ why do you look so ? ’Tis as nice a boy 
as ever was seen. ’ And she answered slowly and sadly, 
and with such a look of certainty as made me almost 
afraid, ^ Campbell, it is a boy ; he will follow in his 
father’s steps, and finish breaking my heart. I have 
prayed God day and night to send me a daughter, not 
a son, and He has not heard me. I will never pray to 
Him more.’ I was afraid to hear her speak so bitterly, 
and tried to comfort and cheer her. But she would 
not hear me. ‘ Call him Alan,’ she said; ‘call him 
by his father’s name for he will have his father’s nature. 
Was it not just as though the poor dear could read the 
future .? ” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Lenore in a low tone. 
“I must hear the rest.” 

“Well, 1 was afraid, after that, that she would take 
against the baby, and tried for a bit to keep it out of 
her way a good bit But soon we began to see that she 
was just wrapped up in the wee boy;^ and could hardly 
bear him out of her sight She was quiet and shelo'oked 
cold, but, eh, how she loved that child ! I think no 
mother ever felt quite as she did. But there was always 
something very sad about the devotion of her love. 
Sometimes she would look up at me and say, ‘He will 
break my heart some day, Campbell ; but I think it only 
makes him dearer to me now. I wonder, shall I ever 
love him less when he learns to scorn me and to hate 
me, and begins to follow in the footsteps of his father ” 
And I would say, ‘Oh, ma’am, do not say such things, 
do not think them. The boy will grow to be a pride 
and a joy to you.’’ And then she would smile such a 
sad, sad smile, and answer, ‘You will see, you will 


48 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


see/ It was strange now, was it not, that she should 
be so certain ? ” 

“ Very strange,” assented Lenore ; “ but was the boy 
a naughty one ? ” 

“ The best, the gentlest, the nicest that ever lived,'’ 
answered Campbell with sudden enthusiasm. “ I loved 
liim as if he were my own ; and a more loving child 
you never saw, nor one more obedient and more pas- 
sionately fond of his mother. He was like her in face 
— as she used to be in her girlhood, blooming and 
lovely and fresh as a rose. He had her high spirit and 
courage too, and was, as I was always saying, ‘every 
inch his mothers boy.’ I could see nought of his father 
in him, and I paid no heed to her fears. ” 

Campbell paused again with a sigh of bitter regret. 
Lenore, who was deeply interested, pleaded that she 
would go on with her tale. 

“ Well, I must not make it too long ; I must pass over 
the years quickly. They glided by very fast, and the 
boy grew, until he began to call himself a man, and at 
last we were almost forced to think of him as such. 
My mistress said to me one day, ‘ Campbell, we must 
not keep him always at home. He must go out into 
the world.’ I was surprised to hear her say so; and 
yet I knew that she was right. He could not stay- 
alvvays with a houseful of women. ‘ He must go to 
the University,’ said my lady. ‘I shall send him to 
Cambridge.’ ” 

“ And did he go ” 

“Yes, he went, and he did well there. He was clever 
and liked his books well enough, and when he came 
home for his holidays he looked well and happy, and 
was, as affectionate as ever to us all, and devoted to 
his mother. She did not wish him to lead an idle life 


CAMPBELVS STORY, 


149 


because he was wealthy ; she said idleness made more 
wicked men than vice did. She wished him brought 
up for the bar, and for awhile he seemed content that it 
should be so ; but one Christmas-time, when he came 
home to us, he was full of some great, new idea. He 
wanted to be a soldier, he said. His friend Graham 
was going into a cavalry regiment in the summer, and 
he was bent on having a commission bought for him. 
He was set on the army. I shall never forget my lady’s 
face when she heard him talk thus. She looked at me, 
and said in a low tone, ‘ This is the beginning of the 
end, Campbell.’ Well, I had a deal of talk with Master 
Alan — for, as I’d been his nurse, he always let me say 
what I would — and I did all I knew to persuade him to 
give up his notion and take to the law, as his mother 
wished ; but ’twas no manner of use. The lad was bent 
on his own way — they all are, Miss Annandale, even 
the best of them — and he laughed at my fears, and al- 
most laughed them away. My mistress said little — it 
was not her way to talk, and he did not know her as I 
did ; he did not know how much she felt, and if he had 
done, it might not have restrained him. So when the 
summer came the commission was bought, and the lad 
went away to be a soldier.” 

There was a long pause, and Campbell’s face grew 
very sad and grave. 

“ Well } ” asked Lenore softly. 

“Well,” returned Campbell, drawing along breath, 
“it was, as she had said, ‘ the beginning of the end.’ 
d'he army is a dangerous place, they say, now, to send 
young men into ; twenty years ago it was ten times 
worse. And I suppose, perhaps, there was no worse 
regiment in the country than the one Master Alan had 
selected. First we knew how things were going by the 


50 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


way he kept on writing for money. My mistress was 
very patient with him and very generous, but her face 
grew sadder and sadder as the months rolled by, and 
she talked to me less and less of the child she loved so 
well.’' 

And did he not come and see you ? ” asked Lenore, 
her face full of sympathy, for she, too, knew some- 
thing of a similar anxiety. 

“ His visits grew fewer and shorter; then his letters 
grew short and cold. He was always wanting money, 
money, money ! and when at last my mistress wrote 
and said she could not go on allowing him so much, 
and that he must be more careful, then came a long, 
sullen silence ; no word nor sign from him for weeks 
and weeks ; and I sometimes thought her heart would 
break. And yet there was worse to follow. ” 

Campbell’s face was full of woe, and Lenore’s of 
deep interest and pity. 

“Oh, Campbell, what a sad, sad story ! How she 
must have suffered ! No wonder her face is so full of 
misery. And how did it end ? ” 

“Ay, ma’am, ’tis time I came to the end. ’Tis too 
sad a story to spin out, though there is much I could 
say. I will come to the last chapter — the saddest one 
of all.” 

Campbell had lowered her voice to a mysterious 
whisper, and almost unconsciously the two women 
drew closer together, and the night-light flickered dim- 
ly, and the fire ceased to sparkle, and only burnt with 
a steady, subdued glow, as though everything animate 
and inanimate sympathized with the sense of solemn 
sadness which pervaded this melancholy history. 

“Mr. Alan wrote one day a short, almost insolent, 
note, saying that he and a party of friends were coming 


CAMFBELVS STORY. 


151 

to Auckness, in two days’ time, to stay for a fortnight. 
He asked no leave, wrote no word of love or even of 
courtesy ; and the next day he and his friends arrived. 

“My lady had made all suitable preparations. Every- 
thing they could want they had. Young princes could 
not have been better treated ; but she did not go down 
amongst them. She shut up herself in her own room, 
and saw*no one but her son ; and his visits, short and 
grudgingly bestowed, gave more pain than pleasure 
when they did come. It was a sad, sad time. There 
were ill doings in the house by night and by day. We 
heard sounds of angry voices, drunken songs, and the 
kind of mirth that makes devils laugh and angels weep. 
It was like the old days of Colonel Boghey's reign ; 
and we both felt sure that what she had once foreseen 
was coming to pass.” 

“And when he did come, how did he behave.? Was 
he quite changed .? ” 

“ He was like his father,” answered Campbell signifi- 
cantly. ‘‘The likeness grew stronger and stronger. I 
need not say more. 

Mr. Graham came with Mr. Alan, and so long as he 
was there things were not quite so bad. He was a 
real gentleman, and Mr. Alan looked up to him and 
took his advice in many things, though I did hear that 
they had words sometimes, and that Mr. Alan pro- 
voked him very much. He came every day and it 
seemed a protection having him in the house. But he 
had to leave shortly, to see after some business of his 
own, and though he left his things behind and promised 
not to be away long, we all felt sorry at his going. 

“Things got worse directly he left. The noise 
downstairs lasted farther and farther into the night. 
We heard that play ran high, that they drank deep. We 


LENORE A.Y.VAEDALE. 


152 

shivered sometimes at the sounds below, and feared 
almost to listen. And then there came one dreadful 
night — the noises had been worse than ever — and at 
two in the morning up came INIr. Alan, half mad with 
drink and excitement, to his mother’s room. We were 
both of us up, sitting together there, for we could not 
sleep. He came in and demanded money. He must 
hav'e money. He had played, and he had lost. His 
outside creditors, too, were pressing him hard. Money 
he wanted, and money he would have. My lady was 
quite calm, and asked him how much it was he 
wanted. He named a sum so large that it took my 
breath away to hear it spoken. My lady said it was 
impossible to give him such an amount as that ; that 
he had already had more money that year than 
she could well afford ; but that she would think the 
matter over, and if he would come to her in the morn- 
ing, when he was in a fit state to hear reason, she 
would let him know to what extent she could help him 
in his embarrassments. And in return for this quietly 
spoken promise, he turned and struck her — struck his 
own mother in his blind, senseless anger — and told her, 
in wild, furious words, that she would repent bitterly 
ever having refused him, and then he flung himself 
from the room. ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Lenore, horrified by the reality which 
Campbell threw into her story. “Oh, how dreadful — 
how dreadful ! Oh, poor Mrs. Boghey ! " 

“She did not cry out nor faint, nor make so much as 
a moan. She only sat down, as white as death, and 
buried her face in her hands. 

“ Mr. Alan never came near us after that. We did 
not know what he was doing. The house seemed 
wrapped in a terrible mystery, and my lady moved 


CAMPBELVS story. 


*53 

about like one in a dreadful dream. In a week’s time 
Mr. Graham came back, and sought my mistress with 
a pale, grave face. He told her that her son had forged 
a cheque in his father’s name, for a very large sum, 
and that the family were very angry and intended to 
prosecute at once. Then my lady’s calm almost gave 
way, and she prayed for mercy for her guilty son, say- 
ing the money should be restored fourfold, if only that 
disgrace and ruin were spared him. l\Ir. Graham was 
very kind, and said he would do all he could — that he 
had said a great deal already to his father, and would 
say more on his return ; but that he must see Alan first, 
and then he should know better how the matter stood. 

“ He went to seek him. Mr. Alan had the two 
locked rooms on one side that passage. Miss Annan- 
dale, Mr. Graham those on the other side. It was 
there they met. What happened no man knows. We 
suppose Mr. Alan was in no condition to reason or to 
understand properly what was said. He must have 
mistaken Mr. Graham’s drift — have thought himself 
threatened and in danger. He was like a wild beast at 
bay. His gun was in his room ; he seized it, and 
struck Mr. Graham a terrible blow on the head. Then 
he came tearing like a madman to his mother’s room. 
Oh, ma’am, I cannot tell you more of that night. He 
said he had murdered his friend, and we all thought 
he spoke the truth. There was nothing for it but flight, 
and he fled — fled from his mother’s house that night, 
we knew not whither. ’Twas on the night of the last 
day of September. 

“But Mr. Graham was not dead, only so injured 
that he has been like a child ever since. ’Twas the 
brain that suffered, the doctors said ; and he never had 
his reason again.” 


154 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ Oh, how very, very sad ! ” 

“Ay, dvvas worse than death, they said ; and after 
f that, as you may guess, there was no forgiveness — no 
peace to be made with the Grahams. Mr. Alan was 
hunted for, as they hunt the slaves that escape, with- 
out mercy and without pause. You may guess how 
my mistress suffered during those long days.” 

“ But they did not find him 

“No. He got away to foreign parts. At last we 
heard from him, and could very cautiously and secretly 
supply him with funds to keep him alive. But the 
Grahams were ever on the watch. It was a terrible 
way in which to live. He felt like a hunted creature, 
and all joy in life was gone. We suffered with him, 
and lived in terrible fear lest we should innocently be- 
tray him. I’wice we saw him again. He came in a 
sailing vessel, disguised as a sailor, rowed himself up 
to the point, and so made his way into the house. They 
were dreadful, stolen visits ; and even then rumors got 
afloat, and we feared from day to day he would be 
taken. And so he would steal away again at dead of 
night as he came.” 

“ And then } 

“Then he died in foreign parts, worn out by fear 
and anxiety. And when the news came of his death, 
you may, perhaps, understand why it was that it seerped 
more of a relief than of a sorrow. And that, ma^am, is 
my mistress’s story, so far as I may tell it.” 



CHAPTER XIV. 

LIGHT. 

U NDER the skilful and tender nursings of Campbell 
and Lenore, Mrs. Bog-hey slowly recovered her 
strengfth again, although it was visible to all who saw 
her that the iron constitution, which had stood so many 
shocks of grief and horror, was slowly and steadily being 
undermined by the imperceptible action of time. 

She hhd 'had warnings before that her health was 
giving away. She had shown that she was aware of 
it when she consented to make some slight change in 
her mode of life, when she decided to take a companion 
into her house — a companion who should have youth 
and hope and brightness, with which to brighten her 
lonely life — a companion who should not be ever asso- 
ciated in her mind with the dread hours of the past, as 
Was her faithful and devoted Campbell. 

And so Lenore had come to her, and had brought 
with her, although she knew it not yet, the richest ot 
blessings which life can give, both to the worn and 
weary, to the young and gay. She knew it not yet, 
that lone and stricken woman, but she was to learn it 
soon. 

Lenore had seen but little of the Moneys since her 
arrival at Auckness. During a part of the summer they 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


156 

had been from home, and after that they had had the 
house full of sportsmen, and had been busy with gay 
doings, and the stormy weather of the winter months 
precluded much intercourse. Herbert rode over most 
often, and endeavored to make himself agreeable ; but 
Mrs. Boghey seldom cared to see him, and Lenore was 
always more glad to see him depart than arrive, although 
she' bore him no ill-will, and was often amused by his 
gossiping talk. 

• Whenever she did see Mrs. Money and her daughter, 
she was conscious of an increasing dislike and jealousy 
on' their part, which she could not at all understand; 
but she did not trouble her head about the matter, as 
she was profoundly indifferent to them, and knew, as 
by instinct, that there was nothing genuine in their 
professed love towards Mrs. Boghey. 

When they had heard of her illness, they had been lav- 
ish in their offers of assistance, and most anxious to do 
all and everything in their power to show their interest 
and devotion ; but all overtures had been promptly and 
coldly repulsed, and even their visits had been fruitless. 
]\Trs. Boghey was neither willing nor able to see them ; 
Lenore was either with the patient or resting in her 
own room, and could not be disturbed — this was Camp- 
bell’s strict injunction to the servants — and they had to 
go away as curious and unsatisfied as they had come, 
only hearing in the butler’s stiff phrases, that his mis- 
tress was going on well, and that she improved slightly 
from day to day. 

Mrs. Boghey was certainly improving. After a time 
she was able to leave her bed, to lie upon the sofa for 
a few hours each day, whilst Lenore or Campbell 
watched beside her. 

One curious phase of her illness had been her utter 


LIGHT. 


157 

silence. From the morning of the melancholy anni- 
versary day, until she was approaching convalescence, 
she had hardly uttered one connected sentence, or spoken 
by her own volition. When her mind was very weak, 
she had wandered somewhat, and talked of past days 
and past scenes, with distress and terror in look and 
voice ; but that was all. There was no attempt to hold 
converse with the outside world ; what passed through 
the mind of that lonely woman, as she lay hour after 
hour gazing out into vacancy with her hollow, despair- 
ing eyes, was known only to her and to her Maker. 

But one day this icy barrier of reserve was broken 
down. 

It was twilight, and the fire flickered brightly in the 
grate. Candles had not been lighted, for the daylight 
had hardly yet faded. Mrs. Boghey lay upon the couch 
in her room, and^Lenore sat -beside her, hoping she 
slept. 

But before very long she was almost startled by the 
sound of a long-unheard voice : 

“ Lenore. ” 

The girl turned her head quickly, and saw the dark 
eyes bent earnestly upon her. 

“Yes." 

“ Lenore," said the sick woman, with a curious inton- 
ation in her voice, whether of reproach or of sadness she 
could not make out, “ have you been praying for me } ” 

It was a curious question to unseal for the first time 
lips that had long been closed. Lenore answered 
simply : 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you been praying very earnestly — very de^ 
terminedly ’’ 

Again came the simple answer : 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


158 

Yes. 

“ And what have you been praying for ? Tell me, 
for I wish to know.” 

“I have been praying,” answered Lenore quietly and 
gently, '‘that our Heavenly Father will help and com- 
fort you ” 

“ There is no comfort possible for me,” interrupted 
the sick woman qilickly. 

Lenore continued as though she had not heard the 
words : 

“ That He will show you how His great love can 
bind up the broken heart, and make sweet the bitter 
water of affliction. I have prayed Him to grant that 
you may know Him for a refuge, a very present help in 
time of trouble, that you may feel that the everlasting 
arms are underneath, in spite of all ; and I have prayed 
Him to grant that at evening time it may be light.” 

Deep silence followed these words. It was broken 
by a long, shuddering sigh ; . . 

“ Child ! child ! v’^hat are you saying ? Why are 
you troubling me with sweet words that mean nothing ? 
Why do you torment me with false hopes ? I have 
learned endurance — I have learned to bear all without 
a groan. Is it not enough ? Why try to disturb the 
dead calm I have struggled for years to attain to ? ” 

Lenore came and knelt down beside her, and laid her 
hand tenderly upon the white head, as she made answer : 

“ Because I know that there is a better and a hap- 
pier thing which you can attain to. W’’ould you not 
gladly change the dead calm of which you speak, for 
the peace of God, which passeth all understanding ? ” 

It seemed to Lenore as though the bowed head trem- 
bled beneath her hand ; but the voice remained still, 
even, and cold. 


LIGHT. 


159 

“ Such words are but empty names to me, child. 
They bring no meaning with them.'' 

“ And yet the meaning is not very hard to read for 
those who seek it. " 

“ I do not seek it, " answered Mrs. Boghey calmly. “ I 
have deliberately chosen my own path. My God, in 
whom I trusted, forsook me ; and I trusted him no 
more. I have sunk down into a calm, cold apathy, 
which, if it is not rest, is at least a simulation of it, and 
was enough for me. Why have you troubled me with 
your words and your prayers } Whilst I have been 
lying in the dark gulf of sickness — blackness all around 
me — the cold quietude of hopelessness from which I 
never wished to awake again — I felt a power from 
without drawing me whither I could not .go, stirring the 
black waters round me, and trying to gild their edges. 

I know what that power was now, Lenore Annandale : 
it was your will, your prayers, what you like to call it. 
And I say, Let me alone, let me sleep ; 1 am weary, 
weary, weary, and beg that I may not be awakened." 

‘‘I know you are very weary," answered Lenore ten- 
derly ; “and that is why I do so want you to find One 
who said, “Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest." ’ 

Earnestly, searchingly, despairingly, the dark eyes 
fixed themselves upon her face. 

“ Words, words, words," she repeated mournfully — 
“only hollow words." 

“Not so," answered Lenore steadily, “not hollow 
words — grand, comforting, life-giving words. Could 
hollow-sounding words move you } Is it not because: 
you feel that they are living words that you almost 
dread them .? Does not their truth make itself felt ?' 
They are true and lasting wqrds.. They are written as. 


l6o LENORE ANNANDALE. 

much for you to-day as for those to whom they were 
spoken. ' Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my 
words shall not pass away. ^ Mrs. Boghey, Christ’s 
words have not passed away, and His words are, 
‘Come unto Me,’ — ‘Whosoever cometh unto Me I will 
in no wise cast out. 

The sick woman covered her face with her hands 
and trembled. 

“ Child,” she said hoarsely, “ such promises are not 
for me. I have lived alone too long ; and now I must 
die alone.” 

“ You cannot die alone,” answered Lenore. “Christ’s 
love will be round you whether you shut your heart to 
it or not. You cannot be alone — He will not desert 
you, though you may have deserted Him. He will not 
leave you. He is standing now at the door knocking, 
and He will continue to stand so, until you let Him in. 
I do not think He will knock in vain. I think you 
have heard Him ; I think you will open to Him. ” 

“ Child, child, I cannot ! I could not if I would. 
My heart is like a stone.” 

“ He can give you a new heart.” 

“I have shut Him out too long now to change. It 
is too late.” 

“If He does not say ‘too late,' surely you need 
not. ” 

“I have lived without God. I have cast Him off, as 
he cast me off.’^ 

“ He never cast you off,” answered Lenore firmly. 

“You do not know, child, you do not know. He 
has dealt very bitterly with me.” 

“ ‘Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, andscourg- 
eth every son whom He receiveth,’” answered Lenore, 
gently. “Oh, Mrs. Boghey! after Christ has come 


LIGHT. 


l6l 


clown to live as man for us, and has so sanctified and 
glorified every kind of suffering, how can we say that 
it is a sign of God’s desertion of us ? As soon might 
we say He had deserted His own Son." 

“And did he not.? " questioned the sick woman bit- 
terly. 

For answer Lenore simply^quoted the beautiful lines 
of Mrs. Browning : 

“Deserted! who hath dreamt that, when the cross in darkness 
rested 

Upon the Victim’s hidden face, no love was manifested ? 

What frantic hands outstretch’d have e’er the atoning drops averted ? 
What tears have washed them from the soul that one should be 
deserted ? 

“ Deserted ! God could separate from his own essence rather, 

And Adam’s sins have swept between the righteous son and Father ; 
Yea, once, Emmanuel’s orphan’d cry His universe hath shaken ; 

It went up single., echoless : ‘ My God, I am forsaken ! ’ 

“It went up from the Holy’s lips, amid His lost creation, 

That of the lost no son should use those words of desolation ; 

That earth’s worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope’s 
fruition. 

And I, on Cowper’s grave, should see his rapture in a vision.” 

Then came a long, long pause. Mrs. Boghey lay 
still with closed eyes, and Lenore knelt in silence be- 
side her, fearing to say more, lest she should be hurt 
by too great agitation, yet fancying, as minute after 
minute passed by, that a more restful look was stealing 
over that wan face. 

At length she said softly : 

“ ‘ The Eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are 
the everlasting arms.”’ 

“I believe they are, Lenore Annandale," said the 

II 


i 62 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


sick woman slowly and faintly. “I believe they are. 
I think I feel them — now. ” 

Tears sprang suddenly to Lenore’s eyes. She stooped 
and kissed the white, careworn brow. 

“They will never let you go. They are always 
underneath. We can always rest in safety there. ” 

No more passed between the two that evening. 
Mrs. Boghey, worn out by mental excitement and 
agitation, lay still and silent. Lenore, her heart full 
of deep thankfulness, watched silently beside her. 

Days wore on, and few words were spoken between 
Mrs. Boghey and Lenore, although their hearts were 
closely drawn together. 

That strong, lonely heart might find comfort and 
help from words spoken by another ; but its deep strug- 
gles after light, and fierce battles with despondency and 
despair, had to be fought out alone. The habit of a 
lifetime could not be changed in a week, and it was in 
silence and in loneliness that the weary soul freed itself 
slowly from its fetters, and was washed white in the 
blood of the Lamb. 

And yet she was not alone, the weary woman bowed 
down beneath the load of sin and sorrow ; for One was 
ever with her, to guide, to teach, to strengthen, to com- 
fort ; and she, too, learned to know herself not deserted. 

Lenore guessed rather than knew what was passing 
in that sad heart. 

“Read to me, child,” Mrs. Boghey would sometimes 
say ; “read me strong words, living words, which will 
drive away doubt and fear.” 

Or she would say : 

“Read me something to comfort me, my dear, for 
my heart is sorrowful to-night.” 

And Lenore was always ready, ready with just 


LIGHT. 


163 

such words as were wanted. Mrs. Boghey never looked 
to her in vain ; and at last it seemed as though a settled 
peace had fallen upon her, very different from the “dead 
calm ” of former days. 

“My dear,” she said one day to Lenore, after she 
had been reading to her, “I often think what a wonder- 
ful book that is.” 

“Yes,” answered Lenore simply,**it is God’s Word.” 

“ It has everything in it we can want.” 

“Indeed, yes.” 

“ Lenore, I should like it read in the house ; I should 
like all to hear it. Will you read to the household each 
morning .? ” 

“I will gladly, if you wish it.” 

“ I do wish it; it ought to be done. I have done 
wrong to rob others because I would not accept good 
gifts for myself. It shall not go on so. You will see 
my wishes carried out.” 

Lenore had no difficulty about this. Campbell 
summed up the feeling of the household thus : 

“ It may not be that we’re better than other folks, or 
more fond of good things of that kind ; but there isn’t 
one of us but isn’t glad of such a change, ma’am. It 
seems more Christian-like, and more home-like too, to 
come together to begin the day with hearing words 
like that. God bless you. Miss Annandale, for the 
change you’ve made here since you came ! ” 

And so family prayer became a regular institution at 
Auckness Point. 

November had come now. Snow lay upon the 
ground, and the cold of winter had fairly settled'in. 

Mrs. Boghey was much better, but still weak and 
shaken. She kept much to her own room, and there 
Lenore spent the greater part of her time. 


164 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ My dear/' said Mrs. Boghey one day, breaking a 
long silence. 

“ Well .? ” 

“ Do you not find your life very dull ? ^ 

“Not at all." 

“ Are you happy ? " 

“ Quite happy." 

“And not home-sick ? " 

“No, not even home-sick.” 

“But what about going home? Are you wanting to 
pay them a visit .? Do they not want you ? " 

“ They write about Christmas. I did say something 
before I left, about asking leave of absence then, but I 
will not leave you if you want me. You are my first 
charge now." She spoke with the tender affection of a 
daughter. 

“I should not know how to spare you ; it would be 
very hard. " 

“Then I will stay," answered Lenore quickly and 
decidedly. 

“Nay, my child, I must not be selfish " 

“You are not selfish. It is I who have decided it, 
not you." 

“ I have no right to ask such a sacrifice." 

“You have every right," answered Lenore, impul- 
sively crossing the room, and bending over the white 
head she loved and reverenced so much. “ Besides, it 
is no sacrifice. Do you think I could enjoy my Christ- 
mas if I thought you were lonely, or sad, or missing 
me No, I will stay. We will spend our Christmas 
together. " 

“ God bless you, Lenore ! " 

“He has blessed me already," answered the girl 
softly and reverently; “He has blessed me in sending 


LIGHT. 


165 

me to you, who have made a home for me in your home 
and in your heart. I came here a stranger, and you 
have made of me a daughter. You have been like a 
mother to me ; may I not claim a daughter’s right to 
watch over you and tend you ? God has indeed blessed 
me in giving me this work to do, which is the one of 
all others I would have chosen.” 

The first tears Lenore had ever seen there, sparkled in 
Mrs. Boghey’s eyes as she folded the girl in her arms. 

“My daughter,” she whispered, “God has indeed 
blessed me in sending you to me. My child, my child, 
I have no words to express what I feel, but the light 
has come at last, Lenore — you have led me into the 
light ; God bless you for it ! ” 




CHAPTER XV. 


A STRANGER. 



IFE at Cottesmere Farm, after Lenore’s departure. 


went on for some weeks calmly and uneventfully ; 
but it was not so very long before an unexpected inci- 
dent occurred, which broke to a certain extent the 
monotony of the life which they had led so long. 

Marjory was sitting idly in the orchard swing one 
evening, watching the shadows slowly lengthen as the 
sun sank lower and lower in the sky, when she saw Duff 
walking homewards over the fields, and saw that he 
was not alone. 

“Who is it?” she asked herself. “ Not Philip — it 
isn’t his walk ; not one of the men, because it’s a gen- 
tleman. It isn’t Mr. Ross ; it isn’t anyone I know. 
Duff is bringing him here, too. I wonder who he can 


bel” 


Marjory’s curiosity was aroused, for of course she 
knew everybody for miles round, and the advent of a 
stranger was something of an event. Still, she was 
too idle to move, and was content to wait until her 
chance came to find out what she wished to know. 

She had not, however, to wait long. Duff caught 
sight of her white dress among the trees, and led the 
way into the orchard. Ilis companion followed, and 
Marjory noticed that he was tall, and very much 


A STRANGER, 


167 

bronzed, and that his figure, though somewhat spare, 
was well built and wiry. He did not look very young. 
The girl put him down at five-and-thirty, which was 
a great age in her eyes. 

“Let me present you to my youngest sister, Mar- 
jory, said Duff. “ Marjory, this is Mr. Gordon For- 
rester. 

Marjory’s eyes lighted with comprehension. The 
name evidently was not unfamiliar. 

The stranger bowed gravely ; but she extended her 
hand with a smile, exclaiming : 

“So you have come back ! ” 

“So it would appear.” 

“And are you living at Langdale Hall? ” 

‘ ‘ I am ; that is to say, I have slept there these last 
two nights.” 

“ Yes ; but I mean, are you going to live there now 
and settle down ? ” 

“ My plans are not yet matured ; but I intend spend- 
ing some time there, at any rate.” 

“I am very glad,” answered Marjory with a bright 
smile. 

Duff laughed, and Mr. Forrester smiled. 

“ You compliment me, Miss Marjory.” 

“Did I?” 

**It sounded like it, at least.” 

*‘Well, I am glad,” repeated Marjory. “I think 
people who have beautiful houses and grounds, and 
everything they can want, should live at home, and 
look after their own people and places. If they don’t 
want them themselves, they should give them to 
people who do. I think it is a shame to shut up a 
lovely old house, and go wandering about all over the 
world. I suppose that is what you have been doing 


i68 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


all these years, Mr. Forrester ; but I am quite sure you 
have never seen anything a bit more beautiful than the 
view from here.’' 

The girl looked radiantly confident as she made the 
bold challenge, and Mr. Forrester gazed gravely round 
him, and then allowed his eyes to travel back to her 
face. 

“lam not sure that I ever have,” he admitted. 

“ I am glad you are candid enough to own it,” said 
the girl, laughing. “ I am quite sure there is no coun- 
try in the whole world half so beautiful as this.” 

“Spoken from the depths of your unbounded experi- 
ence,” remarked Duff lazily. “ Where are all the 
others, Marjory.?” 

“I don’t know. Philip hasn’t come in yet, and 
Dora went to the schools to take the mothers’ meeting 
for Mrs. Ross. I suppose Madeline is in the house 
somewhere, or in the garden.” 

“You will stay to supper, Forrester, and be intro- 
duced to my people asked Duff. “And I’ll walk 
back to the Hall with you later.” 

Marjory’s eyes sparkled. To have a visitor to supper 
was quite an event in the quiet annals of Cottesmere 
Farm. 

“Do stay, Mr. Forrester,” she pleaded. “If you 
will. I’ll make an omelette expressly for you ; and I 
really can make them most beautifully, can’t I, Duff? 
It’s my one talent.” 

The young men laughed and Mr. Forrester declared 
himself powerless to resist such a temptation. Look- 
ing up into his bronzed face, and catching the amused 
twinkle in his eye, Marjory decided that the stranger 
was neither so old nor so -grave as she had at first im- 
agined. 


A STRANGER. 1 5 ^ 

The party then adjourned from the orchard, and 
Duff led the way through the garden, which was now 
one mass of bloom, to the smooth slops of lawn that 
lay before the front of the house. 

Marjory and the guest followed, he looking round 
him with eyes that betokened much quiet satisfaction, 
whilst more admiration was expressed in his quiet 
words : 

“You have a very pretty garden here. Miss Mar- 
jory.” 

“We are fond of it,” she answered. “ It is sweet 
and old-fashioned, and we can do as we like with it, 
because we do nearly all the gardening ourselves. 
What are your gardens like at Langdale Hall ? ” 

“You had better come over and see for yourself. I 
suppose they are right enough. I always gave orders 
that the place was to be kept up properly ; but I have 
not given them any special notice. I don’t believe there 
is a single rose there as pretty as the one you have just 
gathered. What is the name of it } ” 

“ I don’t know. We call it ‘Marjory’ because I bud- 
ded it. Isn’t it a lovely rich color? I’m so fond of that 
deep, deep crimson. ’’ 

“ So am I. Won’t you give me one. Miss Marjory ? 
That bud just bursting would make a perfect button- 
hole.” 

“ Well, yes. I think you may have it,” answered 
Marjory ' considering, “because you’re a visitor, and 
one must be polite to one’s guests ; but you must not 
look upon it as a sign of favor, because it isn’t one. ” 

Her face was grave and arch as she offered the 
flow'er. He looked at her curiously. 

“ Am I in disfavor then. Miss Marjory ? ” 

“ I may get to like you in time, now that I know 


170 


LENORE AETATA ATE ALE. 


you," returned Marjory, gravely. “But I have had a 
very great aversion to you for many years." 

Here Duff, who was leading the way, chuckled audi- 
bly, as though he rather enjoyed his sisters frankness 
of speech. Mr. Forrester looked somewhat taken 
aback. 

“Why, Miss Marjory, in what can I have had the 
misfortune to offend you.? Here am I, come back 
from my wanderings, a staid and a sober man, just 
beginning to find how pleasant a thing it is to have 
neighbors near enough to one’s own gates to make 
friendship and familiarity very easy and pleasant ; and 
already I find myself an object of aversion to the first 
young lady, amongst these neighbors, with whom I 
have had the honor of conversing. It comes very 
hardly upon a man who has known so little of the de- 
lights of such companionship. Can I not persuade 
you to rescind such a hard sentence .? " 

Marjory shook her head. 

“ I told you I might get to like you ; but I can’t un- 
say what I said about having disliked you, because I 
have had a very great objection to you. I thought 
you must be a very disagreeable man indeed." 

“ But why ? Do tell me, that I may be able to amend 
my ways. ’’ 

“Well, I thought it very hard, the strict way your 
place was always shut up — not the park only, but the 
woods and the stream, and everything belonging to 
you. Some of your land is the prettiest about here, and 
I think it was a shame nobody was ever allowed to en- 
joy it. Your men were like dragons, there was no 
escaping them, and they always declared your orders 
were so very strict.’’ 

“Well, can you blame me if they were ? I value my 


A STRANGER. 


171 

property, and I suppose I have a right to protect it. I 
have a natural dislike to have it overrun by country 
bumpkins, who have no regard for owners’ rights, or 
turned into a resort for picnic parties, who will strew 
the ground with newspapers and orange peel. The 
only way of putting a stop to such incursions is to 
make a strict rule. I cannot see the enormity of my 
offence.” 

Marjory laughed heartily and with a ring of mockery 
in her voice. 

“ Well, and what have I said so absurd ? ” he asked, 
as if somewhat nettle^ 

“ You do talk so funny — just as though this was 
Hampstead Heath, or in the heart of a Cockney dis- 
trict. I don’t think a few little children picking daffodils 
and primroses in the copses would ‘ overrun ' the 
place very seriously ; or that permitting the neighbors, 
of whom you profess to think so much, to stroll over 
or to lunch amongst the woods, would threaten the de- 
struction of your property. If you had valued it so very 
much, I wonder you dic^ not condescend to visit it 
rather often er.” 

“Well, Miss Marjory, I suppose you will admit that 
I had the right to liberty of action .? ” 

“ Certainly ; and I have a right to liberty of thought.” 

^ And you think ” 

“That people who will neither enjoy their own goods 
nor let others enjoy them, are acting just like the dog 
in the manger of the fable.” 

“ It’s no good your trying to argue with Marjory,” 
laughed Duff, turning round towards them. “You’re 
bound to get the worst of it, Forrester. She always 
will have the last word. She is a true woman for 
that. ” 


172 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Thank you,” answered Marjory with a mocking 
reverence. “And now I will leave you to smooth 
down Mr. Forrester's ruffled feelings, whilst I go and 
make the promised omelette.” 

‘ ‘ I have not forfeited that, then, by my evil deeds ? ” 
“Oh, no ! I promised you that. I never break my 
word.” 




CHAPTER XVI. 

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE OPINION. 

G ordon FORRESTER became, in a few days’ time, 
quite at home at Cottesmere Farm. He had met 
Duff accidentally upon the day of his introduction there, 
and the two seemed to have taken a mutual liking-, which 
developed in due course into a warm friendship. The 
Forresters had owned Langdale Hall for many genera- 
tions ; but Gordon, the only one now left of 'the old 
stock, had been away from the place ever since his 
childhood, and had never made any stay there even 
then, so that he was an utter stranger to the Egre- 
monts. 

That one of the finest places in the county should re- 
main tenantless year after year had been a grievance 
to the neighborhood for a long while ; and yet now 
that the heir had come back to enjoy his own, it did not 
seem as though many people were to be benefited by 
the change. 

Gordon Forrester was neither shy nor morose, nor 
distant in his manner, and yet people complained after 
a short time that “they could not get at him,” or that 
“they could not understand him;” and they never 
seemed to grow more intimate. 

When they called upon him he made himself very 
pleasant, when he returned calls he was perfectly affa- 




174 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


ble and courteous, and yet people were not satisfied. 
They were curious about him, and he would not satisfy 
their curiosity. He never spoke of himself or of his 
plans, of his past or of his future. When asked a ques- 
tion he replied with seeming unreserve, yet his hearer 
was never much enlightened, and nobody liked to ask 
too many questions, for fear of seeming intrusive. 

Everybody agreed that it was a great pity he was not 
married. A bachelor owner of a large place like that 
was a disappointing being — especially when he was 
young. People were inclined to consider themselves 
ill-used, and cheated out of their rights. There could 
be no entertainments, tennis-parties, and dinner-parties 
until a mistress reigned there ; at least, Mr. Forrester 
seemed of that opinion, for he invited none but gentle- 
men guests to his dinners, and though he entertained 
them well, he did not seem inclined to extend his hos- 
pitality to their wives and daughters. So, after a little 
excitement and gossip, the neighborhood ceased to feel 
much interest in Gordon Forrester’s movements, and 
he was allowed to drop into comfortable insignifi- 
cance. 

The new-comer was well pleased when this result 
had been accomplished. He was one of those men 
who take life easily and quietly, but never allow them- 
selves to be turned from any course they intend to 
]nirsue. He had no desire to pry into his neighbors’ 
alfiiirs. to regulate their actions, or even to criticise 
them ; and he had not the smallest intention of being 
overlooked and advised himself. As soon as people 
began to find this out. he ceased to be troubled, and 
was let alone, as he intended to be ; and yet he had 
offended nobody and rebuffed nobody, and was well 
thought of by all. 


PUBLIC AND PR IV A TE OPINION. 


175 


The only people with whom he became rapidly in- 
timate were the Egremonts. There was something in 
that household that attracted him, and made visits to 
Cottesmere Farm very pleasant. Perhaps it was be- 
cause they made no fuss of him, but allowed him to 
come and go as he chose. He was always sure of a 
welcome and a companion, for he could join Philip or 
Duff about the farm, or Marjory amongst her flowers or 
her poultry ; and there was a warm, home-like feeling 
in the very atmosphere of the house which fascinated 
the wanderer, who had known so little of home life ; so 
from one cause or another, Gordon Forrester visited 
the farm very frequently, and soon ceased to be looked 
upon as a stranger. 

He liked and respected Philip, and asked his advice 
as to his choice of outdoor servants and the manage- 
ment of his estate. Madeline was his oracle on all 
points of domestic economy and indoor regulations ; 
Duff was his friend and comrade, and Marjory his 
spirited playfellow, who teased him, and laughed at 
him, and quarrelled with him twenty times a day, but 
who, nevertheless, amused and fascinated him by her 
waywardness and whims. 

Dora he did not see for some little while after his 
first visit. Mrs. Ross, the minister’s wife, was ill, and 
Dora was staying there, at the earnest request of the 
clergyman, to take care of his wife and to look after 
parish matters a little. Dora was often in requisition 
for services of this kind, and more so than ever, now 
that Lenore was gone. She had not a willing, joyous 
way of going about her work ; but a very strong sense 
of duty, and a restless craving after some employment 
which should content her, and make life look better 
and brighter, acted as an incentive to action, and all 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


176 

who knew her knew well that she was thoroughly 
trustworthy. She paid frequent visits home, and 
Madeline and Marjory came often to see her, so that 
she heard a good deal of this Mr. Forrester before she 
had even seen him. 

Mrs. Ross was much interested to hear that the owner 
of Langdale had at last returned, and was eager to 
hear everything that Dora could learn respecting him. 
Thus it came about that the girl asked many more 
questions, and took a far greater interest in the stranger 
than she would have done under ordinary circum- 
stances ; and this interest was considerably strengthened 
by the innocent and almost childish castle-building of the 
good little woman whom she was nursing, who pos- 
sessed a warm heart but a not over-wise head. 

Mrs. Ross was a warm admirer of Dora. She stood 
a very little in awe of her grave face and decided ways ; 
but she thought her the cleverest and handsomest girl 
in the whole place, and looked up to her with un- 
bounded respect and admiration. And Dora, in her 
quiet, undemonstrative way, was fond of the little 
woman — unconsciously flattered, perhaps, by her good 
opinion ; and she found it pleasant to be with someone 
who looked up to her and treated her with so much 
deference. 

They were sitting together one day in the evening, 
Dora at work, and the invalid resting in her chair, and 
the latter Avas smiling to herself as though some pleeis- 
ant thought was floating through her brain. 

“My dear,” she began, “you did not see Mr. For- 
rester when you went up to the farm to-day?” 

“ No. He had taken dinner there, but had gone out 
with Duff.” 

“Aren’t you very curious to see him ?” 


PUBLIC AA^D PKIVA TE OPINION. 


177 


“ Not particularly.” 

I wonder if he is very curious to see you.” 

“Nothing more unlikely, I should think.” 

“I don’t know. A young man is not always so in- 
different about seeing and making friends with a young 
lady." 

“ I do not think Mr. Forrester is very young; and 
besides, there are Madeline and Marjory at home.” 

“ Madeline and Marjory are not in the very least 
like you,” said Mrs. Ross in a meaning tone. “You 
are different from them all. ” 

“Sometimes I think I must be,” answered Dora with 
a long-drawn sigh. 

“I think, perhaps, it is just as well you were here 
at the first, that his curiosity about you may be 
aroused,” pursued IMrs. Ross mysteriously. “But I 
must not stand in your way. I must not keep you 
here much longer.” 

“I am very pleased to be with you so long as you 
need me,” answered Dora quietly, not heeding very 
much the oracular manner of her hostess.^ 

“I am getting better, my dear, and I must not be 
selfish. It is a great pleasure to me to have you here ; 
but I will not allow myself to stand in the way of your 
interests.” 

“ I do not quite understand you.” 

“No, my dear.^* Well, you are so different from 
other girls — they would know in a minute — they would 
have thought of it all before.” 

“Thought of what.^ ” 

“Why, my dear, perhaps I ought not to put ideas 
into your head — only you know I cannot help making 
my little plans.” 

Dora was somewhat mystified by the turn the talk 
12 


LEXORE ANNAXDALE. 


178 

had taken ; but she saw that Mrs. Ross would be hap- 
pier, if encouraged to unburden herself of the thoughts 
that floated in her head. 

“Well, what are your plans? If they have any- 
thing to do with me, I see no reason why I should not 
hear them.” 

“Well, my dear, perhaps it is hardly the thing to 
talk of openly ; but as everybody is saying how much 
better it would be if Mr. Forrester were to get married, 
perhaps he will think so himself one day.” 

“Very probably.” 

“Well, and then you see, if he does marry at all, 
why, then he must marry somebody.” 

Dora could not restrain a smile. 

“Yes, Mrs. Ross, he certainly must do that.” 

“And you see, my dear, he has not seemed to care 
for any family but yours.” 

“ Has he not? ” 

“No ; everyone says that And then, you see, when 
you go back, and he sees you, he must admire you — 
everyone does that — and he will find how clever you 
are and how much you know. Well, well, my dear, 

I must not make you vain ; but I cannot help wonder- 
ing what will be the end of it” 

“You mean you think Mr. Forrester may wish to 
marry me? ” said Dora slowly, not showing, however, 
that the idea had in any way struck her. “I should 
think, if he wished to marry any one of us, it would 
be Marjory. He and she seem to be great friend.', 
already.” 

“Ah, yes, that may be ; but that is not everything. 
Marjory is very young, little more than a child ; but 
when a man marries, he looks for more than a mere 
playfellow. Dear Marjory is very sweet and bright ; 


PUBLIC AND PKIVA TE OPINION. 


179 

but one could not fancy her mistress of Langdale Hall.” 

Mistress of Langdale Hall ! 

This was putting a new phase on the question. A 
curious sensation — she knew not what it could be — ran 
through Dora's frame ; her hands sank slowly down 
upon her lap, and her work lay there unheeded, but 
she gave no other token of interest, and only said in 
rather a languid way : 

“There is Madeline, you know.” 

“Yes, there is Madeline, I know,” answered Mrs. 
Ross, nodding her head two or three times in a curious, 
emphatic way ; “ Madeline is very good, no one better, 
and she understands household management as very 
few do ; but 1 don’t believe she would ever care to 
leave the old home for a new one. She seems to have 
taken root there. She ancb Philip are all in all to one 
another. I don’t believe any man would ever have the 
courage to try and take her away, and I don’t believe 
she would ever be persuaded. Everyone says of Mad- 
eline that she is a woman very unlikely to marry.” 

Dora said nothing. She knew there was much truth 
in what Mrs. Ross had said. 

The lady was encouraged by this silence to enlarge 
upon her theme. 

“No, my dear. I’ve thought it all over; it won’t be 
Marjory, and it won’t be Madeline ; the one is too 
young, the other too grave and steady. I cannot say 
whom it will be ; but I have my own opinions. If 
he has come home to settle down for good, you may 
be sure he means to marry. A rich man is but a poor 
thing without a wife. And just think, love, of being 
mistress of that splendid place, with horses and car- 
riages, servants and jewels, and everything you can 
want I hope I am not worldly-minded — I don’t want 


1 8o LENORE ANNANDALE, 

anything for myself that I haven’t got; but I do like to 
think of you amongst all the splendor. You are just 
made for it, so grand and stately as you are, and you 
have never found life suit you here ; there was not 
enough scope for you ; but there would be plenty 
there. 

Dora sighed and smiled at the same moment. 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know. Your words set me thinking what 
such a life would be like ; but it is not probable I shall 
ever make a trial of it.^^ 

I am not at all sure of that. ” 

“ It is only your idea. It is not probable Mr. For- 
rester would ever like me. I do not get on with stran- 
gers, as a rule. ” 

“ My husband says Mr. Forrester is a very unusual 
kind of a man, with great originality of mind and a 
great deal of talent. That is what makes me so sure 
he will think a great deal of you.” 

Dora shook her head. 

“You think me a great deal more clever than I am, 
Mrs. Ross.” 

“Well, my dear, I know what everyone says of 
you.” 

“And men do not like clever women, they say.” 

“I feel very certain that Mr. Forrester will like you, 
my dear. ” 

“ Perhaps I may not like him.” 

“You may not ; but everyone says that he is very 
pleasant, and we know he is clever and a traveller. 
Oh, I feel sure there is a great deal that is very nice 
about him, though he is almost a stranger still.” 

Dora sat silent and thoughtful. 

“They say he has thirty thousand pounds a year,” 


PUBLIC AND PRIVATE OPINION. i8i 

said Mrs. Ross, after a pause. “Dear me! to think 
what a lot of money there is in the world 1 ” 

Dora sat quiet and composed as ever, to all appear- 
ances, yet her brain seemed on fire, and a new flood of 
thought had burst in upon her. 

Why should not this thing be ? Was it impossible .? 
Had not rich men married penniless girls before now, 
and why not this Gordon Forrester ? Had she not been 
yearning all her life for a larger sphere, for a greater 
meed of power, and might not this now be attainable } 
No definite form did her thoughts assume. She was 
afraid to allow them to do so, for she was half ashamed 
of the feelings of ambition and worldliness which 
seemed waking up within her. And yet she could not 
but dwell upon the brilliance of such a position as 
would be attained by the future mistress of Langdale ; 
and Mrs. Ross’s hopes that it would be filled by some- 
one who would care for the poor and for the parish 
found an echo in her heart. What a sphere of useful- 
ness such a woman might fill I 




CHAPTER XVII. 

THE MEETING. 

‘AS Gordon Forrester coming this afternoon, Duff?" 

^ asked Marjory. 

Marjory had a way of speaking familiarly of her 
brother’s friends, when they were not present. 

“I dare say he is — most likely, I should say. He 
didn’t come up yesterday. He doesn’t generally miss 
two days.” 

“Well, I can’t amuse him if he does come. I’m 
going to drive with Philip to the mills. He said he 
would take me, and I haven’t had a drive for ever so 
long. Dora must entertain him.” Dora had returned 
home the previous day. 

“I shall be in the hay-field; they’re cutting the 
twenty acres to-day. He can come to me if he wants 
me,” said Duff. “You can tell him so, if you see him, 
Dora.” 

“Very well,” she answered quietly. “I will send 
him to you if I encounter him ; but, as I do not know 
him, he is not likely to accost me.” 

“ Oh, yes, but he will, if he sees you. He isn’t shy,” 
cried Marjory. “ He knows all about you, and often 
asked when you were coming home.” 




THE MEETING. 


183 

Marjory ran off to prepare for her drive, Duff went 
down to the hay-field, and Madeline repaired to the 
back regions, to superintend a young cook in the mys- 
teries of jam-making. 

“ I am glad I am not the eldest sister and mistress of 
this house,'' said Dora in her heart, as she went 
slowly upstairs to her own room. “ I could not stand 
Madeline's daily round of duties." 

Almost unconscious of what she was doing, she 
pulled down her glossy and abundant hair, and rear- 
ranged it in a way which exactly suited the somewhat 
severe and classic style of her beauty. She was dressed 
in a perfectly plain white dress, which fitted to a nicety 
and well became her clear, olive skin, and showed off 
to advantage the stately grace of her figure. Still in the 
same dreamy fashion, she fastened one deep red rose at 
her throat, and looked steadfastly at her reflection in 
the glass. 

Gradually a scornful look stole over the still, set 
face. 

“ I suppose I may be handsome to a certain extent ; 
but to think I should fall so low, as to try and look my 
best for a man whom I have nevQr seen, just because 
he is rich, and could give me the kind of position I 
covet ! Well, I need never look down on other wo- 
men’s paltry devices again. I never professed to think 
myself better than they ; but I suppose I really did con- 
sider myself superior. Well, I can do so no longer. 
I am as vain and as foolish and as paltry as the weak- 
est of them — nay worse ; for what I do, I do with my 
eyes open, and they, poor things, often blind them- 
selves. Well, I shall play my game, whether I win or 
lose. If I lose, I shall get my deserts ; if I win, no 
doubt I shall soon find the stake not so very valuable 


1 84 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


after all What can I expect it to be but vanity and 
vexation of spirit? ” 

With a bitter smile Dora turned from the glass, picked 
up a book from the table, and went slowly downstairs 
and out into the garden. 

She knew by which route Gordon Forrester generally 
approached the house, and near to the path was a pic- 
turesque natural arbor formed by overhanging trees and 
clustering shrubs. A low rustic seat had been placed 
upon the smooth green turf ; and here did Dora quietly 
establish herself, and Philip’s dog, which she had sum- 
moned, lay at her feet in luxurious repose. The two 
thus grouped made a very attractive picture, of which 
fact Dora was perfectly well aware. 

She had not been seated there very long before she 
heard footsteps approaching along the path ; but she did 
not raise her eyes from her book. To all appearances, 
she was intently engrossed by her reading ; in reality, 
she had not the least idea of the words upon which her 
eyes rested. All she thought of was, that the man for 
whom she was waiting was coming. 

Gordon Forrester, tired of his own company, had 
braved the heat of the summers afternoon to walk across 
to the farm in search of amusement. He was in an 
idle mood, more disposed to wander in the garden with 
Marjory than to trudge about the farm with Philip or 
Duff. He was therefore well pleased to see the gleam 
of a white dress amongst the shrubs that lined the path, 
and when he came to the opening between the trees, 
he paused in order to speak. 

But it was not Marjory who was sitting there so 
deeply absorbed as not to hear his approach ; this girl 
in white was a stranger to him, and he was struck and 
agreeably impressed by her appearance. There was 


THE MEETING, 


185 

somethings about her uncommon, and unlike the rest 
of the family, which interested and half amused 
him. 

He knew at once that it was Dora, the sister whom 
he had not yet seen ; the opportunity was too good a 
one to be lost, and he prepared to introduce himself. 
He had not, however, stood there two seconds before 
Tweedie rose up in his deliberate way to bid him 
welcome, and when the dog moved, Dora slowly 
raised her eyes, and saw the stranger standing before 
her. 

Gordon Forrester took off his hat, and she rose and 
came a step forward, acknowledging his salutation by 
a bend of the head. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Forrester,'" she said gravely 
and quietly. 

“Good afternoon. Miss Dora. I see we need not 
introduce ourselves. We ought to have been friends a 
week ago and more. I am fortunate in having this 
opportunity for making up for lost time." 

He held out his hand as he spoke, and she gave him 
hers without a word. 

Dora had not Marjory’s ready, saucy tongue, and 
had no experience to give her confidence in the game 
she was trying to play. She felt as much at a loss 
what to say, and how to act, as any country-bred girl, 
fresh from the schoolroom could do, when introduced 
to the world for the first time ; but then her perfect 
self-control and habitual self-repression concealed all 
this, and lent a kind of severe dignity to her manner, 
which in one so young was rather interesting and at- 
tractive in its novelty. At least so it seemed to Gordon 
Forrester, who looked at her with an amused curiosity 
and was somewhat fascinated. 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


1 86 

“My brother Duff asked me to let you know, if you 
came, that you would find him in the twenty acres, if 
you wanted him.” 

But Forrester did not take the hint. He sat down 
beside Dora, talking pleasantly, and glancing frequently 
at her. 

“ She has fine eyes, and rather a fine face and figure ; 
but she has not much to say for herself, though I don’t 
believe she is shy,” said Forrester presently to himself. 
“ I wonder if she has taken a great aversion to me, as 
Miss Marjory had. Rather amusing if she has. Her 
dislikes would be more difficult to combat than the 
liftle girFs, I should think. I must make myself as 
fascinating as possible. I should like to see her smile. 
She is most preternaturally grave for her years. I 
wonder what makes her so ; it is not like the rest of 
the family.” 

“I should think you must be very pleased to be at 
home again, Miss Dora.” 

“I don’t know that I am particularly.” 

“Are you so fond of visiting 

“ I don’t know, I never tried.” 

“ I thought you were visiting at the parsonage.” 

“I was taking care of Mrs. Ross and doing her work. 
That is not what I call visiting.” 

‘ ‘ Did you like it ? It was very good of you to sacri- 
fice yourself” 

“ It was no sacrifice. I prefer doing something to 
nothing.” 

“Have you nothing to do at home ? ” 

“ Nothing worth speaking of They do just as well 
without me as with me.” 

“ Surely not.” 

‘ ‘ I think so- A number of girls in a' house are a 


THE MEETING. 


187 

mistake. One or two can do everything. Some always 
do all the useful things, and the rest are idle." 

“Are you idle then, Miss Dora? " 

“Yes ; at least, I never feel that there is anything to 
do really worth doing." 

“ Do you like idleness ? " 

“No, I can't bear it." 

“And so you make work for yourself, and become 
an angel of mercy to others. You see I have heard of 
your good deeds. " 

“Dora looked restless and anything but gratified at 
the compliment paid her. 

“ Do not call them good deeds. There is no good- 
ness in them. I only work because idleness is intoler- 
able. There is nothing worth calling work which 
women can do." 

Forrester looked curiously at her. What made this 
girl so much in earnest and so dissatisfied ? Surely she 
had enough beauty in her surroundings, and enough 
love in her family-life, to make her happy ; what more 
could she want ? 

“ Why should women work, Miss Dora ? Cannot you 
leave that to us, and be content to ‘exist beautifully' 
yourselves, as the phrase of the day goes ? " 

“We have to ‘exist' — there is no choice left us — 
whether beautifully or not I do not know. I should 
prefer to live ; but that is only granted to a favored few." 

“ You are terribly in earnest. Miss Dora. You make 
me feel quite ashamed ; I'm afraid I have been content 
to exist comfortably without troubling myself about 
living in any energetic fashion." 

“No, you have not — you have travelled, you have 
seen life, you have played your part in it, whether you 
know it or not. You are a man, and a rich man — it is 


i88 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


impossible for you to understand what I complain of. 
You have not experienced what we do, and nothing 
but experience could teach you." 

Dora had forgotten herself and her part in her favor- 
ite topic. She had not meant to allow herself to appear 
in the light of a discontented, ‘ ‘ strong-minded ” woman 
— for such was the word applied by men to her views, 
and she knew that those two words were enough to 
ruin her hopes ; but habit had been too strong for her, 
and it was only Forrester’s next words that recalled her 
to herself — or, rather, to her part. 

“ So you would like to travel, and see the world, and 
shine there, would you.!*" said he. “You are wanting 
to try your powers — to leave the nest and try to fly 
alone ? Yes, I know what that is. I have had the feel- 
ing myself — in the far-away days of my youth." 

Dora looked at him for the first time, and met his eyes 
fixed very keenly on her face. Yet there was a pleas- 
ant and kindly look there, as well as a humorous twin- 
kle of merriment, and the girl was betrayed into the 
smile which he had wished to provoke. 

“Do you think me very foolish if I do? " 

“ I ? Why should I think any such thing ? " 

“I don’t know. I rather despise myself sometimes 
for feeling as I do, and I fancied men always laughed 
at women who were not content with an utterly placid 
and uneventful life." 

“Do they ? Very rude of them if they do ! " 

“I believe you are laughing at me yourself, all the 
same, Mr. Forrester." 

And Dora’s color deepened to a rich damask hue, 
though she smiled again to hide her momentary confu- 
sion. 

“Indeed, no. Miss Dora. I am profoundly interested 


THE MEETING, 189 

in all you say, and proud to think you honor me with 
your confidence.” 

Dora’s color deepened still more, and he watched her 
with an access of amusement and pleasure. 

‘*I suppose I have no rig-ht to speak of such things to 
a stranger, ” she said, wondering if she had made any 
grievous error in doing so. “1 hope you will pardon 
me for being so tedious. I ought to have been enter- 
taining you instead of complaining. I am afraid we 
forget the simplest rules of hospitality, so shut up 
amongst ourselves as we are.” 

Dora spoke with a simple dignity that impressed her 
listener with a new idea of her character. 

“Indeed, you could not have pleased me more than 
by treating me as a friend, when I only deserve to be a 
stranger. You have shown me the greatest hospitality 
possible, and I am your sincere debtor. I only hope 
your wish may be gratified, and that you may, at some 
future time, be able to see the world and to gratify 
your tastes and wishes. ” 

Dora was silent. Forrester sat pulling thoughtfully 
at his moustache. 

“I don’t see why it mightn’t be done.” 

“What.?” 

“I mean, I don’t see what is to hinder our having 
some mild dissipation here, if we wish.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you.” 

“No.? Well, I tvill speak more plainly. When you 
say you would like to see the world, I suppose you 
mean the ways of the world — its gaieties and its pleas- 
ures. If we reproduce them down here, in little, for 
your benefit — get up picnic-parties, tennis-parties, and 
dinners at Langdale, would a glimpse like that satisfy 
you ? ” 


190 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


Dora looked at him, a curious expression stealing 
over her face. 

“ I don’t know quite — I hardly know what it is I do 
want to see ; but it would be a new experience. I 
think I should like it very much ; but, Mr. Forrester, 
you must not do it for my benefit.” 

“And why not, Miss Dora?” 

“ It is too much. 

“Too much ? ” 

“Yes, you know what I mean. You must not do 
all that, just to gratify a whim of mine.” 

“Suppose it is my whim too?” 

“But it is not.” 

“Pardon me, how do you know ? ” 

“You would have done it before if it had been.” 

“Pardon me once more. Such things cannot be ar- 
ranged for in a moment, and I have not been at home 
more than a couple of weeks or so. ” 

Dora was silent. 

“Well, then. Miss Dora, shall we do it?” 

“We?” 

“ Yes, we ; for of course I shall rely on your power- 
ful assistance.” 

“But I don’t know anything.” 

“ Nor I ; but I suppose vre can learn.” 

“Can we? How?” 

“ By experience — the only real teacher in the wide 
world, as you will find when you grow older.” 

Dora looked at him with an eager look of pleasure 
creeping into her grave eyes. She was but a young 
girl, and there was a delightful novelty in the idea of 
experiencing new pleasures, of which she had only read 
or dreamt before. And then, had he not said “ we,” as 
though some link already bound them together ? And 


THE MEETING. 


91 


was he not altogether a wonderful man, not one bit like 
anybody she had ever seen before ? A new and curious 
sense of pleasure and of power was stealing over Dora, 
which fascinated, whilst it half frightened her. 

“Are you in earnest, Mr. Forrester? " 

“In the most solemn earnest.” 

“And you really want to do all this ? ” 

“My whole being is set upon it.” 

“You are not doing it because of what I said ? ” 

“Nothing is farther from my thoughts.” 

The gravity of his face and the solemnity of his man- 
ner was too much for his listener. Dora was actually 
betrayed into a laugh of girlish pleasure. 

“ Good ! ” said Forrester to himself. “I am glad she 
can laugh. That is as it should be ; and how her face 
lights up when she does ! I call her a quaint specimen 
of girlhood altogether. I am glad I hit upon her here 
by herself.” 

“ Now, Miss Dora, you must be prepared to help me 
to entertain,” he explained. “ These open-air, al fresco 
parties are impossible to manage single-handed, and 
yet, in this kind of weather, and with a place like Lang- 
dale, nothing goes better with careful management and 
plenty of people to look after things. I am sure you 
will be a host in yourself, and will enjoy things all the 
more for being a power. You must be my aide-de-camp 
all through, and Miss Egremont will be our oracle on 
domestic matters, and Miss Marjory our helper in all 
things ; but she is too giddy to be entirely relied upon, 
and it is to you I shall have to look for most support, I 
can see.” 

Dora’s face was unusually animated. It was not that 
she had any special taste for social gaiety ; indeed, she 
had far less of it than most girls. Individually, none of 


92 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


these pleasure parties, thus planned, had any special 
attraction ; but the idea of reigning, as it were, over all, 
and being a power and influence throughout, had an 
immense fascination for her. She would feel what 
others had felt, would know what the sense of power 
was like. She would learn, to a certain extent, her own 
strength, and find out whether she did possess the 
qualities she sometimes felt lay dormant within her, 
finding no outlet in the monotony of her present life. 

And so her eyes brightened and her face grew 
animated, and Forrester, watching her increasing vivac- 
ity with interest and amusement, laughed within him- 
self as he thought : 

“A true daughter of Eve! Perfectly happy in the 
prospect of a few pleasure parties 1 Life is all couleur de 
rose now, when it was all dreary and sad before. What 
trifles serve to make the happiness or misery of girls ! 
Well, I am glad it has fallen to my lot to do somebody 
a pleasure at so small a sacrifice. How like women 
are one to another I I fancied this girl was somewhat 
different from most of her kind, but not a bit of it. 
However, far be it from me to find fault with them. 
They are very charming creatures, and the world would 
be a dreary place without, them. I am a lucky fellow 
to have established myself on so friendly a footing with 
two of them.” 




CHAPTER XVIIL 


DANGEROUS GROUND. 


NEW life seemed opened out, all at once, to the 
girls at Cottesmere Farm. 

The old quiet routine of homely duties seemed to 
have passed away, and new pleasures and new interest 
to have taken their place. 

There were long mornings, and sometimes whole 
days, to be spent at Langdale, during w’hich the re- 
sources of the fine old house were thoroughly consid- 
ered, and the most enchanting discoveries made when- 
ever a shut-up room was opened, or old chests and 
store closets lighted upon. 

Gordon Forrester was as ignorant of his ancestral 
belongings as a man well could be. The family plate 
and jewels had been sent years ago to the bank for se- 
curity, and he had given no thougJit to the minor mat- 
ters of glass, china, curiosities of nature and art, quaint 
costumes, costly laces, and the innumerable trinkets 
and old-fashioned treasures which always get hoarded 
up in an old house, that has been for generations the 
property of one family. It was only in the rapture of 
Marjory, and the more quiet but evident admiration of 
Dora, that he first learned to put any value upon these 
heirlooms. 


13 


194 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


The festivities they had planned v^ere not forgotten, 
although there was a little delay, owing to the time 
needed to get the house into a fit state. The floor of the 
long dining-room needed repolishing. The hangings 
and gilding in the reception rooms wanted attention, 
and, indeed, the whole house required a certain amount 
of care bestowed upon it in detail, before it would satisfy 
the fastidious eye of the master. 

Marjorie declared the delay most provoking ; but 
Dora felt in no hurry to exchange the existing state of 
things. She hardly knew what it was had come over 
her, but she felt a slowly awakening interest in life, and 
a contentment with her surroundings which she had 
never known before, and which she did not under- 
stand ; nor did she feel any wish to examine into its 
cause. 

Had she cared to do so, however, it would not have 
been hard to find. 

Eaqh day, as it came, brought Gordon Forrester to 
the farm, to discuss some plan, ask advice, and take the 
family opinion upon some knotty point of indoor or 
outdoor management. More often than not he would 
want some counsel upon the spot, and Marjory and 
Dora would be persuaded to come back with him to see 
what was wanted ; and Duff would occasionally be 
pressed into the service too, or would walk over later 
in the day and bring his sisters home. 

It was the beauty of house and grounds, and the 
amusement of watching all that was done there, that 
was the charm to Marjory ; but Dora’s feelings had 
undergone a change ; she thought no more of the 
grandeur of the house, of the power of wealth, nor of 
the importance accorded to the mistress of such an es- 
tablishment. Those thoughts had quite died away, she 


DANGEROUS GROUND, 


195 

knew not how nor why; she hardly remembered they 
had ever had place in her mind. 

She lived now in a kind of dream, dimly conscious 
that her heart was at rest whenever she and the owner 
of this fair domain were together ; that she looked for 
his coming with feverish eagerness, felt as though the 
light had left when he was gone ; that his voice was 
the only music for which she had ears, his face the 
only one she cared to look upon ; that it was these 
constant visits to the Hall, and his visits to the hirm 
that had taken away all the old weariness and dreari- 
ness out of her life, and transformed the dull, colorless 
future into a mystic dreamland of golden haze, into 
which she feared to look, lest its fairy-like beauty should 
dissolve away. 

Gordon Forrester was a different being from any she 
had ever seen before. Her very limited experience 
had never brought her into contact with a man of his 
stamp, and he impressed her imagination vividly. His 
careless strength, his freedom from all constraint, and. 
his independence of what people thought of him, struck 
her as very wonderful. He cared no whit for the old- 
fashioned etiquettes of the neighborhood, went his own 
way regardless of public opinion, and yet so managed 
matters that he offended nobody, and increased his pop- 
ularity by slow and sure degrees. And yet, with all 
this reckless independence of character, there was a 
courtliness and polish in his manner, quite different 
from anything she had met before, and which she found 
irresistibly fascinating. 

They saw a great deal of one another, these two, dur- 
ing the days that followed their first introduction. Mar- 
jory was forever flitting hither and thither, her eager 
interest carrying her from place to place with unwearied 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


196 

zeal ; and she and Mrs. Alford, the housekeeper, were 
already fast friends, and had an immense deal to talk 
over and plan together. 

Thus Dora and Forrester were left a good deal alone 
together, and although nothing of any special signifi- 
cance ever passed between them, these hours formed 
the happiness of the girl’s life, and were looked back 
upon, as times of unalloyed contentment. 

She spoke little herself, for slie loved to hear him 
talk. She listened with breathless interest to his tales 
of travel and adventure, and her face would grow 
slowly pale, and her eyes dilate with anxious horror, 
when he told of any situation of peril in which he had 
himself been placed. 

Such a listener made a very agreeable companion, as 
Gordon Forrester was not slow to find out. He began 
to find her more interesting than he had done at first, 
and although Marjory’s merry chatter amused hiiji more 
than Dora’s subdued gravity, there were moments when 
he said to himself that, after all, the elder sister made 
the better companion. 

He was not a vain man, although he possessed a 
tolerably good opinion of himself and his powers, and 
he did not believe himself to be “ the kind of man 
women fall in love with,” and so he saw no reason 
why he should deny himself the pleasure of their com- 
pany. He was so much older than these girls — that is 
to say, some twelve years older than Dora — that he 
felt himself privileged to speak and act much as he 
chose ; and if ever the doubt did cross his mind, 
whether the wonderful softening and growing sweet- 
ness so apparent in Dora might not have some root in 
an awakening love, he put the thought away from him 
with a strong hand, and laughed at his own folly. He 


DANGEROUS GROUND, 


97 


was not the man to deny himself a pleasure for a mere 
fancy, or to let small scruples trouble his conscience. 
He liked to be with Dora, and she liked to be with him. 
He would take care of his heart, and she must take care 
of hers. He never spoke a word of love to her, and 
she should never have a right to reproach him for 
misleading her as to his intentions. 

Not that the idea of marriage was distasteful to Gor- 
don Forrester ; on the contrary, he had serious thoughts 
of settling down at home and taking to himself a wife. 
But then he meant to look well about him, and make 
a wise choice. He was not going to be caught by 
a pretty face, or a winning manner, or fascinated by 
a pair of deep, earnest eyes. He was going to take his 
time, and find a woman who would be an acquisition 
to his home, as well as a loving wife to himself, and 
who would support with dignity the honors due to the 
mistress of Langdale Hall. 

The idea of putting one of these Egremont girls into 
such a place, never seriously entered his head. They 
had no experience of life, had lived in the most simple 
and homely fashion, and would be quite at a loss in 
such a position. Even Dora, with all her quiet dignity 
of manner, was as ignorant as a child in many things 
that ought to be perfectly familiar to the mistress of 
a large house ; and Forrester, who had led for years 
a wandering, homeless life, wanted someone to direct 
him in the conventionalities of society, not someone 
whom he would have to direct. 

Of these cool, calculating thoughts, however, Dora 
knew nothing ; and though she had had her calculating 
moments herself, all that was now passed, and she 
thouglit no more of the position she had once coveted, 
but of the man she unconsciously loved ; and the 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


198 

fascination of his presence grew upon her day by day. 

She saw that he took an increasing pleasure in her 
society, and that he became imwe unreserved with his 
opinions of men and things, and that alone was enough 
for her. 

Some of his opinions, however, gave her some vague 
distress and anxiety. 

One day they had been talking of a narrow escape 
he had once met with, when he had, as it were, looked 
death in the face, and Dora asked him in a low, awe- 
stricken tone : 

“ Did you feel afraid ? ” 

“ Afraid of death ? — oh, no ! ” he answered care- 
lessly ; “why should I be?” and as she did not an- 
swer, he went on half mockingly, “ You know. Miss 
Dora, I am not one of your orthodox, good people, 
who long for the glory, or fear the punishment to 
come. As we know less than nothing upon such sub- 
jects, I decline to trouble myself about them ! ” 

Dora always felt unequal to an argument ; she let 
such remarks aS these pass unanswered, but as they 
grew” more frequent, she grew more uneasy and dis- 
tressed, and one day she asked, after a similar observa- 
tion : 

“ Are you an atheist, Mr. Forrester?” 

“ I dare say you w’’ould call me one.” 

Dora’s face grew grave and perplexed. 

“ Do you believe in nothing? Have you no God ? ” 

“ I believe firmly in w’hat I can see and know, and I 
let the rest alone — the only wise plan, as it seems to 
me.” 

“ It sounds dreadful.” 

“ Not at all — only practical. How can we know 
what we pretend to know ? It is all guess-work and 


DANGEROUS GROUND. 


199 

delusion — innocent deception enough, but still decep- 
tion. Church-going is a harmless form of entertain- 
ment, and very respectable ; 1 patronize it myself, but 

as for believing what is taught Now, Miss Dora, be 

honest Tell me your own views." 

“ 1 don’t know what to think about things," said 
Dora restlessly. “ It is all so perplexing." 

“ Then don’t think ; it is a troublesome habit of 
mind, and leads to no good. Be content to enjoy life, 
and take its good things as they come to you. Ah I 
and here comes Miss Marjory, full of some new discov- 
ery. Our grave faces will frighten her." 

But Dora’s face was grave all that day, and she could 
not regain her usual animation. 

That night she was standing watching the stars with 
earnest, wistful eyes, when Philip came upon her, and 
asked with a smile : 

“ Well, Dora, what do they remind you of .? " 

“ I don’t know. What do you mean ? Do they 
remind you of anything } " 

“ Of Lenore, " he answered dreamily. 

“ I think a good many things remind you of her," 
replied Dora, half smiling. 

“ I think they do." 

Brother and sister stood together watching the star- 
lit sky, each thinking their own thoughts. At last Dora 
spoke in a quick, vehement way : 

“ Philip, look there — look at all those stars — they are 
all worlds bigger than ours. How is it Christ came 
to live in ours P It doesn't seem possible. I cannot 
understand it." 

“ No," answered Philip quietly, “ nor I." 

“But I want to," continued the girl restlessly. 1 
want to be sure." 


200 


LENORE ANNA^DALE. 


‘‘You can be sure, Dora, without understanding.” 

“Are you sure, Philip ? 

“Yes.” 

“ Do no doubts ever trouble you ? ” 

“ Not now.” 

“I wish I could believe like that.” 

“What is your difficulty ” he asked, turning to- 
wards her, with a quiet caress that invited confidence. 

“ It is all so difficult ; I seem in a whirl ; I can’t grasp 
anything. ” 

“You must build on the Rock, Dora, or you will be 
always slipping into the sea of doubt. The Rock is 
Christ. ” 

“ He seems so far away.” 

“Only seems, Dora ; He is close beside you always.” 

“ How can I tell.? ” 

“You have His word for it. Is not that enough ? ” 

“I’m afraid it isn’t, Philip. I am frightened at my- 
self, sometimes, I feel so wicked. How can we know 
that Christ was God at all ? ” 

She was almost afraid of her own boldness when the 
words were out ; but Philip did not seem shocked or 
horrified ; he only asked very gently : 

“You mean, you want a further testimony than the 
Bible gives us .? ” 

“ I want to be sure ; nothing seems certain.” 

“You believe in God, Dora ? ” 

“Oh, yes, yes, Philip! Don’t think me so very 
wicked .? ” 

“No, I don’t think that; I only want to know how 
things are with you. If you believe in God, you be- 
lieve too in His perfect goodness and perfect love — good- 
ness and love beyond what man can conceive of? ” 


DANGEROUS GROUND. 


201 


“Yes, yes, Philip, I hope I do, I believe I do ; but 
He seems so far away, so unapproachable.”' 

“We must approach Him, Dora, through His Son,” 
continued Philip gravely and quietly ; “ and if you 
believe in the Father, you must believe in the Son ; be- 
cause if that deed of perfect love, perfect self-sacrifice, 
and perfect power which we call the Incarnation, were 
not the work of God, but the imagination of man, then 
man has been worshipping, all this while, a God of his 
own creation, more holy than the true God ; and that, 
as we have said before, oannot be, because God, to be 
God, must by His nature be higher and holier than our 
sinful imaginations could picture Him.” 

“I will try to think as you do, Philip ; thank you,” 
said Dora as she left him. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

PERPLEXITY. 

T he festivities at Langdale were pronounced by 
the neighborhood at large to be a great success. 
Nobody was forgotten, and all the gentry of the place, 
for many miles round, met together in the gay gardens 
and spacious apartments of the Hall, prepared to enjoy 
themselves to the full, and take stock of all they could 
learn regarding the affairs of the young owner, who had 
come home to enjoy his own again. 

Much speculation was excited by the position seem- 
ingly occupied by the Egremont girls at Langdale, and 
each person put his or her own interpretation upon 
Forrester’s conduct, and solved the riddle according to 
taste. 

The prevailing idea was that Dora was the bride-elect. 
There was a stateliness and dignity in her manner 
suitable to the position she would thus have to occupy, 
which favored the supposition, and Forrester treated her 
with a grave deference which was thought by many to 
be very marked. There were others who said that 
saucy Marjory, with her bright eyes and ready tongue, 
was the favored one ; and that he looked very kindly 
upon her no one could doubt, though more than that 
no one could say. A few of the elder men said it was 



PERPLEXITY, 


203 


Madeline who would be, in the end, elected ; but the 
prevailing feeling amongst the matrons was, that Dora 
was the most dangerous rival their daughters would 
have to encounter, and that it was high time they be- 
stirred themselves to make a diversion. 

“Oh, my dear !” cried little Mrs. Ross, seizing her 
opportunity when Dora was alone, to unburden herself 
of some of the pride and delight which were swelling 
within her. “ Oh, my dear, I am so glad and proud ! — 
Is it not all coming just as I said ! Oh, it is just what 
I have wished for you.” 

“What do you mean, dear Mrs. Ross? What have 
you always wished ? ” 

Dora spoke quietly, but the blood mounted slowly in 
her face. 

“You know, my dear — for you to be mistress of a 
beautiful place like this.” 

“ 1 am not mistress here,” said Dora; “we are only 
helping Mr. Forrester.” 

“ Oh, but they are all saying that it will be so. We 
can all see what he means, and how much he thinks of 
you. He must mean something by all this. Oh, yes, 
my dear, we shall all hear something very soon, and 
we shall none of us be surprised.” 

A curious feeling of mingled pleasure and pain stole 
over Dora, as she pondered these words. Was it true 
that Gordon Forrester meant to ask her for his wife ? 
and, if so, was it because he loved her ? 

Ah ! there lay the sting and the pain ; for Dora, 
taught by the very intensity of her own love, was coii- 
vinced that, however much Forrester might like her, he 
bore her yet no love worth calling by that holy name. 

But yet they said that he would marry her — these said 
so who, as lookers-on, saw, or were supposed to see. 


204 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


(Host of the game. Her consent was taken for granted, 
as the girl had remarked with a half bitter smile ; and 
yet, if he should make her the offer that was expected, 
what would her ansvyer be? 

It seemed a strange question for a girl to ask herself, 
who loved so deeply, and, even apart from love, had 
so coveted the position which might become hers in 
this way ; and yet she did put that question to herself 
very earnestly and thoughtfully. 

“If 1 were to marry him and he did not love me, I 
could not bear it,"' slie said to herself. “ I do not care 
one atom now for all the grandeur ; I only care for him, 
and for his love ; and if he does not love me, I had 
better, far better, accept nothing from him, for I think 
such a life as that would break my heart.” 

Her reverie was interrupted by her companions 
voice. 

“And you are looking so beautiful, my dear, every- 
one is saying so. I always did say so, you know ; but 
some people said you were too cold, or too grave, or 
too pale ; but nobody says anything like that now. 
They all say as I do. And you have such beautiful 
things too — those lovely, soft white dresses just suit 
you, and all that beautiful gold embroidery too, so ex- 
actly what sets off a face and figure like yours. I never 
saw such beautiful and curious things as you wear 
now. I cannot help wondering where they all came 
from. ” 

“They are curiosities Mr. Forrester picked up on 
his travels, and some are curious old relics that have 
turned up at the Hall. He is very generous, and he 
has no sisters or cousins, and so he gives them to 
us. ” 

“Ah, my dear, I knew it must be so ; you know he 


PERPLEXITY. 


205 


could never do that, if he did not mean something.” 

“I do not think it shows he means anything in your 
sense. He is open-handed, and enjoys the pleasure of 
giving, and of seeing his gifts appreciated. I do not 
much like taking them ; but INIarjory is so delighted 
with her treasures and so childlike over them, that I 
have not the heart to say anything, and as long as she 
accepts them, so must I, or it would look too marked.” 

“ My dear, I did not mean there was any harm in it. 

I think it is all very nice.” 

“I am not sure that I do ; but Mr. Forrester has such 
a knack of getting his own way that it is useless to op- 
pose him. He makes everyone believe in him and let 
him do as he likes.’’ 

“ Well, I do not wonder at it, for he is a fine, hand- 
some young man, and has a most agreeable manner. 
He speaks so nicely to every one of us, that we all say 
the same of him — he is charming. ” 

“ Is he V’ said Dora dreamily. 

And so regular at church too. I’m sure he is very 
good. He met me coming out of poor Stone’s cottage 
the other day — the man, you know, who broke his leg 
and had to have it cut off— and he asked me about him, 
and the very next day he sent me a cheque for ten 
pounds for my sick and poor ; and he has been sending 
soup and all kinds of good things to Stone ever since, 
and has looked in once or twice to see how he has 
been getting on. Oh, yes, I’m sure he is a very good 
young man. Nobody who wasn t, would do things like 
that.” 

Dora’s face expressed several conflicting emotions. 

“ He is kind-hearted, I do think, she said slowly. 

“Very good, I am sure,” reiterated Mrs. Ross, who 
when she had once taken an idea into her head, was 


206 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


apt to harp upon it. “ He always comes to church in 
the morning, as regularly as dear Philip.” 

“ I know he does. ” 

“And it is not every young man in these days who 
would do so.” 

“No.” 

“No, my dear, for I am sorry to say my dear hus- 
band tells me there is a sad deal of atheism abroad in 
the world just now.” 

“ Is there ” said Dora, the color mounting slowly in 
her face. 

“ I am afraid so, for Theodore always knows, he is 
such a reader ; and just think, my dear, what a dread- 
ful thing it would be to marry a man with views like 
that ! ” 

“Would it.?” 

“Oh, my love, it would be too dreadful, I think ! 
Fancy even going through the beautiful marriage ser- 
vice before God’s altar, and in His house, with a man 
who had no belief in God, and whose vows to Him 
could be only a mockery. Fancy what life would be 
with such a man, if he had no love or reverence for holy 
things, and only tolerated, 'even if he did not oppose, 
all those views which give us the only true happiness 
we can have here. What happiness or blessing could 
we expect in such a union .? ” 

Little Mrs. Ross waxed quite eloquent in the earnest- 
ness of her thought, and her eyes were so full of tears 
that she did not notice the expression of pain and dis- 
tress which crossed Dora’s face. It was soon gone, 
and the girl asked quietly : 

“Would not the believing wife sanctify the unbe- 
lieving husband .? I think St. Paul says something like 
that somewhere.” 


PERPLEXITY, 


207 


“Well, my dear, I’m sure, if St. Paul says it, it must 
be right, and it isn’t for me to say any more. You 
know when people are already married they must stay 
with one another, because God has joined them ; but I 
don’t think it’s quite meant that a womaiYis right in 
marrying a man of that sort. If she was sure she 
could help and teach him, it would be different ; but 
men are so strong, and their wives have so to lean on 
them, that I’m afraid he would be much more likely to 
convince her than she, him.” 

“I’m afraid so, too,” said Dora, with rather a bitter 
and weary smile ; and then some more guests joined 
them and the conversation was interrupted. 




CHAPTER XX. 

Forrester’s plot. 

ORA’S mind was in a state of chaos. Her whole 
▼▼ life seemed utterly changed. There were mo- 
ments when she experienced the most exquisite hap- 
piness — these moments were when she and Forrester 
were alone together, and when he was in his gentler 
and more reflective mood — but these brief periods of 
happiness were almost always followed by hours of 
anxious uncertainty and wearing doubt, w^hich seemed 
to try the girl almost beyond the power of bearing, 
until she was ready to long for the old placid monotony 
of life, which she had found so trying once, and against 
which she had been always, in thought, rebelling. 

The two doubts which tormented her ceaselessly 
were, whether Forrester would ever return the love 
which she could not withhold from him ; and whether, 
if he did love her, she ought to bind herself by the 
sacred marriage vow, to one who held in such light 
esteem all that she had been taught to look on as high 
and holy. Was Mrs. Ross right in saying that n*o 
blessing could rest on such a union ? Was it possible 
she would have to make so terrible a sacrifice to a 
religion for which she had little real love ? Ought she 
so to sacrifice her happiness Yet, if she did not, 
might not the shipwreck of her faith, which she felt 





FOJ^I^ESTER^S PLOT. 


209 

must follow such a union, be the worse misery of the 
two ? 

She was torn in twain by conflicting emotions ; and 
yet it seemed as if the worst misery was yet to come ; 
for suddenly it dawned upon her that Forrester had 
only been trifling with her, whilst he had secretly en- 
gaged himself to Marjory. 

Flow she arrived at this conclusion she hardly knew. 
She suddenly found that all the world had awoke to the 
fact, and although no word had yet been openly spoken, 
merry, laughing Marjory was looked upon as the 
future mistress of Langdale. 

An explanation of this state of affairs must here be 
given. Forrester had found himself of late dreadfully 
persecuted by certain ladies of his acquaintance, who 
were anxious for themselves or their daughters, to 
secure a prize in the matrimonial market. Not pre- 
pared to pledge himself to anyone, yet anxious to stop 
the manoeuvring, which he found very trying, Forres- 
ter had racked his brains to find a way of escape. 

For this, he had had to look out for a confederate, 
who was not likely to take too serious a view of life or 
its proprieties, and his choice fell upon Marjory, who 
would, he thought, be amused and pleased to assist 
him in mystifying the world. 

Flaving come to this conclusion, Forrester lost little 
time in opening his mind on the subject to his pro- 
posed accomplice. 

It was at a tennis-party at one of the neighboring 
large houses that his chance came. He and Marjory 
had played a match together, and beaten all adversa- 
ries, and then they had strolled off, flushed with victory 
nnd their past exertions, to cool themselves and rest in 
.some of the shady ^hrubbery paths. 

' ■ 14 


210 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


There was a fountain in a sequestered, grassy place ; 
and Marjory pulled up her sleeves, and amused herself 
by dipping her arms into the cool water and letting 
little streams trickle through her fingers. 

“ Oh, it is so cool and delicious ! ” she said. “I’m 
glad we beat them, aren’t you, ]\Ir. Forrester.? ” 

“Yes. We don’t like being beaten, do we, Mar- 
jory?” 

He called her by her Christian name purposely ; but 
she did not notice. 

“I hate it!” she cried with energy, and then she 
laughed. “Well, I do, Mr. Forrester — I can’t bear 
being beaten. I don’t care if it is babyish to say so.” 

Forrester looked at her with a smile, and seated him- 
self beside her on the edge of the fountain. 

“ Well, we are alike in that, at any rate ; for I don’t 
like it either. By-the-by, do you know what people are 
saying about you and me .? ” 

“ I should think they say how very well we play 
tennis,” answered Marjory, making a futile dive after a 
gold fish. “ And I really think we do, don’t you .? ” 

“Certainly; but they are saying something else 
beside that. ” 

“ Are they ? How can you tell.? Oh, I have wet 
my sleeve ; what a pity ! Do you think it will make 
the lace look draggled and dirty .? ” 

Forrester smiled to himself, but would not be diverted 
from his plan of action, 

“ They are saying, if we could but hear it, that we 
are in love with one another.” 

Marjory laughed merrily. 

“ People do say such very ridiculous things 1 ” she 
answered, meeting his eyes without a blush, or the 
least sign of confusion. 


foi^resTer^s plot. 


21 


“Is it very ridiculous then ? 

“ I think so/’ 

“ Why? ” he asked, amused and well pleased by her 
indifference, and yet a little nettled too. 

“ Oh, I don’t know quite, only you’re so wise and so 
old, and quite different from anybody about here ; and 
I’m just like country people always are, and it seems so 
ridiculous to talk, just because we like each other, and 
like to play tennis together.” 

“ Then yoy do like me, Marjory ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, very much.’' 

“ Why don’t you call me Gordon, then ? ” 

“ I always do when you’re not there,” admitted 
Marjory naively. “ I think it’s a much nicer name 
than Mr. Forrester.” 

“ So do I ; and I wish you would always call me 
so when I am there.” 

She laughed as she answered : 

“ Well, I will if you like ; but won’t it make people 
talk? ” 

“ I want to make them talk.” 

She stared at him now in amused surprise. 

“ You want to make them talk ! But why ? I don’t 
understand. ” 

“ Ah, no ! But you would understand well enough 
if you were what I am, a persecuted man. ” 

“ Are you persecuted? ” 

“ Indeed I am.” 

“ Who persecutes you ? ” 

“ That race of beings commonly called match-making 
mammas.” 

Marjory laughed mischievously. 

“Ah, yes, you must expect that. You are fair game.” 

“ I don’t want to be thought fair game any longer.” 


212 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ Then you will have to get married/' ' " 

“ But I don’t want to get married.” 

*‘Well, engaged then.” 

‘T don’t want to get engaged, either.” 

“Neither should I, if I were a man and could go 
travelling about all the world over,” answered Marjory. 
“ It must be so stupid to settle down and be just like 
everybody else. ” 

“But we are wandering from the point, Marjory.” 

“Are we .? What is the point ? ” 

“How to stop this persecution of a helpless and un- 
lucky bachelor.” 

“Well, how are you going to stop it.? Have you 
got a plan .? ” 

“Yes; but I want an accomplice. Will you be 
one .? ” 

Marjory laughed, and began to look more interested. 

“What could I do?” 

“Nothing much, only be great friends with me ; call 
me Gordon, and don’t answer any questions when they 
are asked. Let people see we have a great secret 
between us.” 

Marjory’s face expressed many feelings, but mis- 
chievous amusement was the one which prevailed. 

“Oh,” she said slowly, “ I see what you mean now.” 

“ What do I mean ? ” 

“ You want people to think you are engaged to me, 
so that they may stop bothering you. ” 

“That is exactly it. Don’t you think it will be great 
fun ? ” 

“ Yes, perhaps it will ; but do you think it is quite — 
quite — proper ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think it is ; but I never did care about 
being proper. ” 


^'OA^A^EST^/s^^S PLOT. 


213 


“ No more do I. 1 think I like to be rather naughty.” 

“Then we are agreed there, Marjory, and you will 
help me to shake off my persecutors ? " 

“Yes, if you like ; at least I will call you Gordon, 
and make people think we have a secret, and all that. 
I don't a bit mind teasing and puzzling people, only 
you must be quite sure” (she spoke with sudden, im- 
perious gravity) “ that you never try to play the game 
in earnest, for I should not like that, and could not be 
friends any more.” 

“ You may trust me,” he answered, laughing, yet 
looking curiously at her. “ I will not abuse yourgood 
faith and fellowship, but tell me why you should so 
dislike me as an aspirer for your hand.” 

‘ ‘ Because I don't like you a bit in that way, ” answered 
Marjory with the candor of her nature ; and after a 
short pause she added, more slowly and with lowered 
eyelids, “and because I shall never marry anybody 
but Jack.” 

“And who is Jack ? ” 

“A kind of cousin ; he is a sailor. I haven't seen 
him for an age ; but we just understand each other. 
We're not engaged, and you must never say anything ; 
but if ever he gets on and gets a ship, I shall marry 
him, and if he doesn’t, I shall never marry anybody 
else.” 

Forrester looked at her with a smile, half relieved to 
hear of this rival, whose image kept Marjory's heart 
safe from all chance of harm, half jealous of the unknown 
Jack, who had won so warm a place there. 

“ Is that a secret too between us, about Jack.? ” 

“Oh, yes ; you musn't say a word. People think it 
all play, because we are not very old, but it is not 
play, really.” 


214 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“No, I see it is not — the most solemn earnest; and 
this Jack, I suppose, cuts me out altogether — leaves me 
not a chance ? ” 

Marjory laughed archly. 

“ No, not the least chance ; ” and then her face grew 
suddenly more grave, and she looked up and added 
quickly, “but I never could have cared for you in that 
way, ever, not even if there had been no Jack.” 

“Could you not ever .? ” 

“No, indeed I could not.” 

“I feel flattered. Tell me, Marjory, ami so very 
hideous or dreadful ? ” 

“No, you are not, but your thoughts are.” 

“ What do you mean } ” 

“You are an atheist, are you not? ” 

“Who told you so? How do you know ?” 

“Nobody told me; I can find it out for myself. 
Lots of times, when you are talking, I can’t bear what 
you say ; it sounds so wicked.” 

“Does it?” he asked, smiling indulgently. 

“Yes, it does,” she answered, kindling into increased 
earnestness. “ I know it’s considered very clever 
now, not to believe in God or in anything ; but I don’t 
see anything clever or great in it. I think it is mean, 
and ungrateful, and unmanly — yes, and stupid too, 
because the whole world tells us about God when we 
will listen to it, and not get so conceited about what we 
think and what we don’t think, and won’t believe any- 
thing we can’t see and understand. Why, it’s too ridic- 
ulous ! We might just as well say we didn’t believe 
in the electric telegraph because we can’t see or under- 
stand it — for I can’t even do that ; yet I’m not silly 
enough to say I don’t believe it” 

Forrester laughed at her vehemence. 


I<'0A^J^£S7'£/i:^S PLOT, 


215 

** We won’t argue, Marjory; I don’t want to shake 
your trust, I’m sure.” 

“No, we won’t argue; I couldn’t argue. I’m not 
clever enough, and I know you could puzzle me. I 
couldn’t answer you. But I know I’m right, and you’ll 
know it too some day, and then you will see how 
dreadful and wicked it is to think such things.” 

“And would these dreadful views,” he asked with 
a smile somewhat less ready than usual, “really stop 
your marriage with a man you loved ? ” 

“I never could love a man who thought such things,” 
was the quick response. “Yes, you may laugh at me, 
but I never could, never, never ! Jack, ” she added, with 
a smile that was peculiarly radiant, “ Jack is not like 
that. Jack will help me to be good, will teach me when 
I am wrong, will lead me where I want to go. Jack 
and I have often said our prayers together ; I pray for 
him every day, and he for me, and that seems to keep 
us always near together. Oh, Gordon ! ” (the girl 
broke off suddenly, and looked him full in the face) 
“how can you go on believing such dreadful things.? ” 

“Come, come, Marjory, we have not time to discuss 
the subject to-day. People will be wondering what has 
become of us. I did not mean our compact to bring 
about such a serious talk. No doubt you are right, and 
I am wrong ; but don’t let us quarrel, because yoii 
know we are lovers now.” 

Marjory was but a child, and her mind seldom dwelt 
long upon one theme. By the time they reached the 
company again, her smiles had all come back, and she 
was playing her part with a mischievous zeal. 

From that day dated the ever-increasing conviction 
that Gordon Forrester and Marjory Egremont were 
engaged. 



CHAPTER XXL 


A HARD-FOUGHT FIGHT. 



HE conflict of feeling which had gone on in Dora’s 


▼ mind during these past weeks, had not been with- 
out effect upon her ; and the darkness which now 
seemed to have fallen upon her life put, as it were, the 
crowning touch to the mischief already begun. 

She began to look pale and jaded ; she could neither 
sleep nor eat ; she cared no longer to join in the gayeties 
going on round her, and her brothers and sisters began 
to feel some anxiety about her. 

“I do not feel very well, she admitted wearily to 
Madeline, when questioned as to her pale face and 
heavy eyes ; “I feel as though I wanted a change. I 
feel as if I must get away somewhere — anywhere ! 
I don’t know what is the matter with me. Perhaps it is 
the hot weather, or that so much gayety does not suit me ; 
but I do so much want to get away somewhere and 
restand be quiet. I shall never be better until I do.” 

Madeline expressed no dissent, although she might 
reasonably have asked where better could rest and quiet- 
ness be obtained than at Cottesmere Farm She looked 
anxiously at her sister and asked : 

“ But where can you go, dear? ” 

*‘1 think I know. You remember Mrs. Laine, whose 




A HARD-FOl/GHT FIGHT. 


217 

children I helped to nurse when they had fever. She 
used to live in the cottage by Hunter’s Wood.” 

“ 1 know,” said Madeline; “she went away about 
a year ago. ” 

“Yes; she had some money left her, and is pretty 
well-to-do, and is living by the sea in Dorsetshire. She 
begged me, if ever I should be near, not to forget her, 
and to come and see her if I could. She would be de- 
lighted, I believe, to take me in for a week.” 

Madeline thought so too ; and an exchange of letters 
soon confirmed the impression, and Dora’s visit was 
fixed for an early date. 

It was like a load lifted from the girl’s mind to feel 
that she could soon free herself from the necessity of 
seeing Forrester almost daily ; for the sight of him was 
growing almost more than she could bear ; and it 
seemed to her that the only chance of clearing her mind 
from the haunting doubts and fears which filled it, was 
to go quite away, and think over and face the future 
that lay before her, far away from the place which 
seemed now to stifle her, so full was it of sweet and 
bitter associations. 

Forrester, however, was much surprised and not very 
well pleased to hear of this sudden move. He was sur- 
prised, because he fancied that his presence was agree- 
able to Dora, and that she found pleasure in his society, 
and in the gay doings which he had been the means of 
starting. And he was ill-pleased, because the girl in- 
spired him with a good deal of interest and admiration, 
and he liked to be with her and to talk to her, although 
he did not quite understand what could be the attraction. 

Of late there had been a still greater charm in the 
subdued reserve and almost sadness of her voice and 
manner ; and Forrester, who wished to be interested, 


2i8 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


and who liked a character subject to subtle and inex- 
plicable changes, had been more attracted by Dora 
during the past days than ever he had been before. 

On the eve of her departure, he walked across to the 
farm, and by a little skilful manoeuvring found her alone 
in the garden. She was looking pale and sad and very 
full of thought, and he was close beside her, before she 
was aware of his presence. 

When she saw him she started, and a wave of color 
swept across her face, leaving it paler than before. 

“ She is very handsome,’’ thought Forrester. “There 
is something strange in all this ; I must get to the bot- 
tom of it somehow. ” 

Aloud he said in his easy way : 

“I have come over to see you and say good-bye. 
Miss Dora ; I am sorry to think we are to lose you for 
a time. I hope you will think of our loss, and let your 
visit be as short as possible.” 

“I am afraid it is my way to think more of myselt 
than of other people,” answered Dora quietly ; “at any 
rate, in the making of my personal arrangements.” 

“ You malign yourself there, Miss Dora.” 

“ I think not.” 

“Then you are anticipating a very lively visit, I sup- 
pose,” he said, feeling an absurd and unaccountable 
jealousy at the thought. “A country house, full of nice 
people, all bent on amusement, and the shooting just 
beginning. You wdll have gay times ! ” 

“No, not that ; I am not going to a country house 
at all ; but to a little cottage by the sea, in a very, very 
quiet little place.” 

He looked at her in surprise. 

“ Does some great friend of yours live there, whom 
you are charitably about to enliven ? ” 


A HARD-FOUGHT FIGHT. 


219 


“No; but a nice old woman whom I was kind to 
once, who is very pleased to take me in and ‘ do for 
me ' for a little while.” 

He looked more and more amazed. 

“ But why are you going? ” 

“Because I wish to.” 

“What makes you wish it? if I may take a friend’s 
privilege and ask the question. ” 

“I go because I am not feeling well, and I think 
the quiet and the sea air will do me good.” 

He looked at her with some concern, and saw that ^ 
she appeared anything but well. 

“You look as though you did want a change,” he 
said kindly. “What is the matter with you ?” 

His tone sent a thrill of mingled pain and pleasure 
through her, but she answered quietly : 

“I do not know, Perhaps the heat has something 
to do with it ; and we have been so much more gay 
than we usually are.” 

He smiled a little. 

“ ‘Seeing the world’ does not seem to have agreed 
with you.” 

“ No,” she answered quite quietly ; “ I do not think 
it has.” 

There was silence awhile, and then he asked : 

“When will you come back?’" 

“As soon as I feel better — like myself again.” 

“ I hope that will be soon, for I shall miss you very 
much whilst you are gone.” 

She smiled as naturally as she could. 

“You have plenty of friends beside me.” 

“Yes; but I shall miss you nevertheless. I con- 
sider that I have a right to do so.” 


i 

220 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“A brother's right," thought Dora ; and she said as 
if to tempt him to speak : 

“Yes ? " 

“Yes,” he answered; and then, by an impulse for 
which he could hardly account, he added quickly, “be- 
cause I sometimes fancy that we shall see a good deal 
of each other in the future. ” 

“Do you? Yes, perhaps so — it may be so,” she 
answered quietly, and then felt justified by the admis- 
sion he had tacitly made, to add, with a brave smile, 
“ I hope you will be very happy, Mr. Forrester.” 

“ Thank you,” he answered, and pulled his mous- 
tache and looked at her in an odd kind of way which 
she did not notice. He knew quite well then to what 
she alluded, and was half amused, half vexed, that she 
should have fallen into the trap he had laid to catch 
others. 

“She can't care for me as much as I thought she did, ” 
he said to himself, “or she would not speak so quietly 
or so readily. I never can understand this girl. She's 
much more puzzling and interesting than most, and she 
provokes one somehow, though I can't tell why.” And 
being somewhat provoked, Forrester amused himself 
by keeping up the deception. 

“Do you think you will find room in your regardfor 
another brother ? ” 

“I dare say I shall, when the time comes.” 

“ Do you think I shall make a nice brother?" 

“Very possibly.” 

“ Do you think you will ever be fond of me ?” 

“I am not going to be drawn into any rash admis- 
sions.” 

“Well, I am not so prudent. I think sisters wilFbe 


A HARD-FOUGHT FIGHT. 


221 


a very desirable acquisition ; I am sure I shall be very 
fond of mine.” 

Dora made no answer, and when he looked at her 
he saw that her face had grown very white. 

A sudden fear and a sudden hope flashed through 
him, startling him out of his lazy indifference ; but he 
thrust them back with a sneer at his own vanity. 

“Nonsense ! ” he said to himself, “I needn’t flatter 
myself she cares for me. I don't even know if I wish 
for her regard. ” 

Aloud he said, as he rose up and held out his hand : 

“Well, good-bye, Miss Dora. I have accomplished 
my purpose and given you my adieus. I hope we 
shall soon see you back, as well and strong as ever ; 
and we must console ourselves for your absence as best 
we can. Good-bye ! I shall be benighted if I linger 
longer.” 

So Dora went away to the quiet and seclusion of the 
humble friend’s home ; and in her trouble, and in this 
peaceful solitude, she turned at last to that only source 
whence lasting peace and comfort can be obtained, and 
began to read her Bible in a different spirit from the one 
with which she had studied it in the days before. 

At first she read in a weary, desponding mood, not 
expecting to find consolation or help, but rather be- 
cause all else in the world seemed flat and unprofitable, 
and she had heard of people who had been comforted 
by Bible promises in times of trouble. If they, why 
not she ? At least, she would try, and see if any new 
meaning came to her ; and so day by day she carried 
her book down to the water’s edge, and in the cool 
shadow of the rocks, read and re-read the familiar 
words that the pages held. 

And as she thus read, her mind humbled by sorrow, 


222 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


her spirit bruised and crushed by the conflicting doubts 
and fears which had battled there, her whole nature 
yearning unspeakably for something unchangeable, 
something certain upon which to lean in time of 
trouble, the fanwliar words, which had seemed but dead 
things once, now seemed living, burning truths, so 
grand that she almost trembled as she realized their 
meaning, yet so tender, so beautiful, so full of unspeak- 
able love that her heart glowed within her, and a sense 
of joy and peace stole over her soul, which at first she 
could not understand, but could only grasp at, and try 
to hold fast, with restful thankfulness too great to rea- 
son about or question. 

Gradually the world, the people by whom she was 
surrounded, and even life itself seemed transformed. 
Nothing looked as it had done before. There was 
beauty in all around her ; and her very sorrow, though 
not yet gone, seemed sanctified and blessed to her, be- 
cause through it she had been led to understand the 
Father’s love. 

Yes ; she understood that now. Now she knew what 
those words meant, “ the love of Christ which passeth 
knowledge,” and through the Son she had found the 
Father. 

There was no room in her heart then for anything 
but childlike trust, and such a sense of restfulness, that 
she almost feared to think, lest the calm should be 
broken up. Alone by the seashore she wandered, in a 
dreamy state of subdued happiness and quiet medita- 
tion, not exactly thinking and not exactly praying, yet 
with much of thoughtfulness and prayer in her mind. 
It was as if she had been given a quiet breathing space, 
to gather strength and courage, after the conflict of the 
j)ast and before the conflict of the future. 


A I/A/iD-FOUGHT FIGHT. 


22 $ 

think I need not ever fear again,” she would say. 
“God will give His help if ever I am tempted again ; 
but I do believe, I do trust in Gods love. His Spirit is 
teaching me to know Him better every day. He has 
given to me His peace, which passeth all understand- 
ing. I do not think I can ever doubt Him more.” 

And a deep sense of thankfulness sank down upon 
the girls heart, and she felt that she had learned at last 
the true meaning of the words “rest and peace.” 

But during these weeks that were so restful and 
happy for Dora, Gordon Forrester was growing daily 
more dissatisfied and restless. 

The neighborhood had settled down to its accustomed 
quietude. There was shooting, to be sure ; but it was 
not specially good, nor did he care much for sport in 
his present mood. 

The farce he and Marjory had acted together no 
longer amused him ; and he began to feel he had done 
wrong in thus allowing the world to couple their names. 
The rumor of their engagement had not yet reached the 
farm ; but, as everyone in the place believed in it, no 
doubt the Egremonts would all hear it in time, and be 
much annoyed with him. In fact, he felt as though he 
ought himself to say something. 

So restless and unquiet did he become at last, that 
everyone observed his changed manner, and wondered 
what could be the cause. Marjory ceased to find him 
an amusing companion, and returned to her former 
pursuits. Madeline was engrossed by her household, 
Philip by his harvest, Dora was still away, and there 
seemed nobody inclined to befriend him but his first 
comrade Duff, whom of late he had somewhat neg- 
lected. 

“What’s up with you, Forrester?’^ Duff inquired of . 


224 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


him one day. “You’ve not been a bit like yourself for 
a week or more. What’s the matter .? ” 

“I’ve been behaving badly ; and it’s not a pleasant 
feeling when one wakes up to the consciousness of it.” 

“You mean about Marjory, I suppose.?” said Duff, 
in his lazy way. 

Forrester looked at him surprised. 

“ Why, what do you know about it ? ” 

“Well, you don’t suppose I am blind.? Anyone 
can see the game you have been playing, for what rea- 
son is best known to yourselves. I don’t suppose it 
means anything, and I fail to see the sense of it.” 

Forrester pulled Ifis moustache, and cut off the tops 
of some nettles with his cane. 

“Idle people do a great many foolish things.” 

“Then there is nothing in it.?” 

“No, nothing.” 

“Just done to throw dust in people’s eyes ?” 

“That’s all.” 

“Well, you had no business to do it, then.” Duff 
spoke in his habitually lazy fashion ; but there was 
something in the tone that made Forrester wince. 

“ It’s done no harm,” he said. 

“No, I believe not; Marjory is whole-hearted. Your 
attractions were not powerful enough to turn her head. 
But it was a dangerous game to play, and you had no 
business to try it” 

“ I know I had not ; though I never led your sister 
to suppose that our love-making was anything but jest 
Do you think any harm is done ? ” 

“No, at least not much. People will soon forget 
all .they said, and she is too much of a child to be 
blamed. I doubt if anybody will give the matter a 
thought now that you are no longer seen together, and 


A HAJ^n-FOUGHT FIGHT. 


225 


the excitement of your presence here is abated. But 
don’t you try that sort of thing on with anyone again, 
especially with a sister of mine.” 

“ No, I won’t. Next time it shall be in earnest.” 

Duff looked at him under his eyelids. 

“Contemplating matrimony? ” 

“ I believe I am.” 

“ You haven’t made your mind up quite ?” 

“ I don’t know. I vary from day to day;” then, 
breaking out into a kind of impatient anger, he added, 
“ I am a perfect fool. Duff. I don’t know my own mind 
two days together. I never felt so restless in my life 
as I do now. When is your ^ster Dora coming 
home ? ” 

Duff’s eyes opened a little wider ; his lips formed 
themselves for a whistle, but made no sound. 

“I don’t know.” 

“ Why did she go away ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Was she really ill ? ” 

“She did not seem at all well.” 

“What was the cause ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? ” 

“ Duff, ’’said Forrester, stopping short and facing him, 
looking pale and almost fierce, “tell me one thing : is 
it only my abominable vanity, or had I anything to do 
with her flight ? ” 

“I really cannot tell you. Dora is very reserved 
and very hard to read.” 

“ But you do not think it impossible ? ” 

He spoke so eagerly that Duff was surprised and 
touched. 

“ No,” he answered ; “ I do not suppose it is impos- 
sible ; you had better go and see for yourself.” 

15 



CHAPTER XXII. 

REJECTED. 

T hey met face to face round a jutting piece of cliff.' 

Forrester had seen her from above, and had swung 
himself down to the path, that he might meet her when 
she came round the headland ; and yet anyone who had 
watched the meeting would have said that it was he, 
not she, who had been taken l)y surprise. 

“ Dora ! ” he exclaimed, and his voice sounded hoarse 
and unnatural, and his face was pale, as if he had slept 
little, and thought much, during the past days, as indeed 
had been the case. 

She looked up at the sound of a human voice, and 
started from her reverie. Her face, too, was pale, but, 
unlike his, it wore an expression of deep peace ; and a 
tender sweetness and serenity which were new to it, 
gave it an inexplicable charm. 

Forrester’s pulses throbbed, and his head and heart 
seemed set on fire. Why had he not known earlier, 
how beautiful and noble a woman’s nature lay hidden 
away under this girl’s calm and reserved exterior ? 
Already the power of his love had transformed her in 
his eyes. Why had he not learned sooner to love 
her ? 

These and a hundred more wild thoughts and fancies 


REJECTED. 


227 

flashed through his mind in a second of time. He ad- 
vanced with both hands outstretched. 

She placed one of hers quietly within his eager clasp, 
and said : 

“This is an unexpected meeting, Mr. Forrester. 

He made no reply, and his silence, and perhaps his 
suppressed agitation, startled the girl, and she asked 
quickly : 

“ You do not bring me bad news from Cottesmere, 
do you, Mr. Forrester ? ” 

Forrester commanded himself by a great effort, and 
spoke almost in his usual way : 

**No, Miss Dora, lam no ambassador of evil tidings ; 
I am only fulfilling what seems to be my destiny, wan- 
dering aimlessly up and down the earth, seeking amuse- 
ment, and enjoyment.” 

“You have chosen a strange place to come to for 
that. There is nothing to see or to do here.” 

“There is the attraction of your presence.” 

She smiled quietly, and without the least self-con- 
sciousness or emotion. She looked, he thought, more 
beautiful than any woman he had ever seen, in her grave 
sweetness and dignity. A great gulf seemed suddenly 
to have opened between them — how, he could not im- 
agine or explain. He could only chafe at the sensa- 
tions he experienced, and wonder if it was only his 
fancy or if the girl had really changed. 

“Are you better. Miss Dora ? ” he asked, abruptly. 

“Much better, thank you.” 

“ When do you return home ? ” 

“I hardly know. I must not be very much longer 
away, I suppose ; but this quiet place and the sea have 
been very refreshing. I feel inclined to linger a little 
while longer.” 


7.78 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


“Don’t you find it very dull?” 

“ No ; I have been happier during these weeks than 
ever in my life before, 1 think.” 

He gave a short, hard laugh. 

“It seems strange to hear you talk like that, Miss 
Dora. A little while ago you were all for change and 
excitement. Your ideas must have undergone a vast 
modification.” 

“ 1 think 1 have myself changed a good deal of late,” 
answered his companion in the same gentle, quiet way. 
“ 1 suppose we do change more or less, as we grow 
older.” 

“ Very few people will admit that. They seem to 
think it something of a disgrace.” 

“ I do not feel disgraced by the change in myself, 
and so I do not mind admitting it.” 

Again he looked at her, and again was struck by 
some subtle change in her manner as well as in her 
face. Why was it he felt tongue-tied and awkward ? 
Why could he not assume the easy familiarity of past 
days ? What made him feel all at once that she was 
his superior, this girl whom he had trifled with, and led 
on and sounded, as he had thought, to the depths of her 
nature ? What was it that seemed to hold him back 
from his protestations of love, and hindered him from 
speaking the words he had come to say? 

Her perfect calmness and self-possession perhaps, 
disconcerted him. In past days he had been used to 
feel her thrill at his presence, at the sound of his voice, 
or the touch of his hand. He had felt such power over 
her, that he had but to speak, to make her his tool or 
his slave, ready to do his bidding, even to believing all 
he chose to instil into her mind. 

He may have exaggerated his own power — men of 


REJECTED. 


229 

his calibre not unfrequently do so — but it was un- 
deniably great ; and yet, now that the moment had 
come when he most needed it, he felt that it was gone — 
the charm broken, he knew not when nor how. 

His companion must have noticed his silence, for she 
began to ask questions, so that the conversation might 
not wholly flag. 

‘ ‘ Have you been to the farm lately ? 

“Yes, tolerably so.” 

“ How are they all.? ” 

“ Very well, I imagine ; I heard nothing to the con- 
trary. ” 

“ How is Marjory ? ” 

There was a smiling inflection in the girPs voice 
which made Forrester feel savage. 

“I suppose she is all right; I made no special in- 
quiry. ” 

She heard the resentful tone, and wondered. Can 
they have quarrelled ? or what does it mean .? She knew 
that something must have gone amiss with him, to have 
wrought so great a change in his manner. 

“What is the matter, Mr. Forrester .? ” she asked, look- 
ing into his face with her dark, grave eyes. “Has any- 
thing vexed you ? ” 

“ Yes, ” he answered shortly, pulling at his moustache 
and looking thoroughly ill at ease. 

“ I do not think you need be vexed. I do not know 
what has happened, but I think it cannot be very seri- 
ous. Marjory is very young, almost a child ; she ” 

“It is not with Marjory that I am annoyed, ” he 
answered shortly. “ I have no right or wish to criticise 
her. It is with myself. ” 

“With yourself .? What have you done ? ” 

‘ ‘ Behaved like a fool, ” he answered fiercely. 


230 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Ido not understand/’ she said, feeling- perplexed 
and half alarmed at the vehemence of his manner. 

He made no answer, but strode along the beach, 
making the pebbles fly at each stroke of his heel. Dora 
kept up with some little difficulty, wondering what all 
this could mean and what would come next. Silence 
was almost more trying than words, so she asked : 

“ I’m afraid you are in trouble. Can I do anything 
for you? ” 

“You can if you will,” he answered, stopping sud- 
denly and facing her. 

“ I am sure I will if I can,” she said gently, feeling 
sure that the office of mediator was about to be thrust 
upon her. 

“You will? ” he cried with eager vehemence. 

“ If I can, most certainly I will.” 

“ Then promise to be my wife ! ” he cried, and 
seized both her hands in his, with a grasp so strong as 
almost to give her pain. 

She started and gazed at him with dilated eyes. 
Then she recovered herself and slowly withdrew her 
hands. 

“You say this to me, ]\Ir. Forrester!” she said 
slowly. “ I think you cannot be yourself to-day.” 

The calm reproach of the tone recalled him to a 
more sober frame of mind. Her steadfast gaze warned 
him that the battle had yet to come. She was not to 
be won by a single word now. 

“Why should I not say it to you,” he asked, “ when 
I love you ? ” 

“And are engaged to Marjory,” she added quietly. 

“ I am not engaged to Marjory.” 

“ You have quarrelled, I suppose, and this is the 
revenge you wish to take.” 


REJECTED. 


231 


There was something almost like contempt in her 
voice, and it stung him to the quick. 

“ You have no right to say such things to me," he 
said hotly ; “ you judge me falsely." 

“ I judge you only by your own lips," she answered 
quietly. “Your creed is to get all the enjoyment pos- 
sible out of life, as its sole aim and object. Having 
amused yourself with one sister, until the entertain- 
ment has palled upon you, you now come to amuse 
yourself with the other ; " and look, as well as voice, 
gave token of a boundless scorn. 

“You wrong me," he cried ; “ you are unjust and 
untrue in your thoughts and words. I never loved 
Marjory, and was never engaged to her." 

“ That was not your tone when last we spoke to- 
gether, and I congratulated you upon your engage- 
ment." 

“ I did not accept your congratulations." 

“You certainly did not reject them. All you said 
was, ‘ Thank you.' To my thinking, that is quite suf- 
ficient for an acceptation. I took it as such, and you 
allowed me to do so. Why did you wish to deceive 
me if it was not true .? " 

He bit his lip, not knowing what to say. All his 
worldly wisdom had deserted him, at this great crisis 
of his life, when most he needed it. Plis love, like a 
blinding torrent, seemed to sweep him away, he knew 
not whither. He had a mad desire to clasp this girl in 
his arms, and force her, by the power of his love, and 
the tenderness of his caresses, to acknowledge that she 
could love him, and would be his wife ; and yet she 
stood before him so calm and composed, in her stately 
pride and indignant scorn, that he felt himself humbled 
and abased before her. 


232 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


“There was no harm in it/' he answered almost 
sullenly; “ Marjory and I understood each other. It 
was nothing- but play on both sides. You may call it 
foolish, if you will ; but there was no harm done.” 

Dora’s lip curled slightly. 

“No harm in coupling Marjory’s name with yours 
in the mouth of the whole country side, so that she 
will get the name of a jilt, or a girl who has been jilted 
— an unenviable distinction, whichever way the case is 
stated! I knew your ideals were not high ; but I did 
think that you were too much the man and the gentle- 
man to take advantage of the simplicity and thought- 
lessness of a girl like Marjory, and induce her to put 
herself into so false a position. I am disappointed in 
you, Mr. Forrester. 1 think we had better bring this 
interview to a close.” 

“ I will not I ” he cried excitedly. “You shall hear 
me. You make too much of this matter — it was a mere 
nothing — the veriest trifling ” 

“The very fact that you can trifle with so holy a 
thing as marriage is enough for me,” answered Dora 
quietly. “ I suppose girls brought up as I..have been, 
have old-fashioned views on these points ; and to me 
it seems a very strange thing that anyone can amuse 
himself, as you have been doing, by making light of 
the subjects we have been taught to think most sacred 
and beautiful. That was not the way in which my 
father loved my mother, nor is it the way in which my 
brothers would go about to seek a^wife. Our ways are 
not your ways, Mr. Forrester, and I think, if you desire 
a wife, you had better go and seek one who will prove 
more of your own fashion of thinking, than you will be 
likely to find in our family.” 

He stood silent before her, with lowered eyelids. 


REJECTED. 


233 


feeling for the first time in his life thoroughly abashed 
and humbled. Perhaps something in his attitude and 
manner touched the girl, now that her first scorn and 
anger had spent itself, for after a moment’s pause she 
spoke again, and spoke more gently : 

“ Let us say good-bye, Mr. Forrester, and part friends. 
Perhaps I had no right to speak as I did just now. Let 
us both try to forget each other. ” 

The calmness of the tone hid all the misery in the 
girl’s heart. He had no idea what it cost her to speak 
to him thus. 

“I cannot ! ” he cried hoarsely. “ I cannot, will not, 
forget. I love you, Dora — I love you with all my 
heart. Do you hear .? — I love you.” 

I hear,” she answered, with trembling lips. “I 
am very sorry you do. ” 

This time her agitation betrayed itself a little. 

“ Dora ! ” he cried, with something of his old com- 
manding way, “can you look into my face and tell 
me that you have no love in your heart for me ? ” 

She did not even try to answer. 

“ Dora,” he said softly, “ I have thought in past days 
that you bore some love for me. Has it all gone .? ” 
She faced him bravely. 

“It is not what it was,” she said. “I cannot give 
you now, the love that a wife should give her 
husband. 

“And could you have done so once ? ” 

“ I think I could. 

He clenched his hand hard as he asked : 

“ Had I been earlier in the field, you would have 
consented to become my wife .? ” 

“Yes.” The answer was spoken very low, but with- 
out hesitation. 


234 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ Then Dora — you are not false or fickle — I claim 
you as my wife now.'' 

He approached, and would have taken her in his 
arms ; but she drew herself away. 

“You cannot do that, Mr. Forrester. You are too 
late. I cannot marry you now." 

“You can, and you shall, and you will I " he an- 
swered slowly and vehemently. “You love me, and 
you are mine." 

“I have loved you," she answered, controlling her- 
self and speaking steadily; “but I cannot marry you 
— I cannot be yours." 

He saw no yielding in her face or voice, yet both 
were full of pain. 

“ Do you mean to say," he asked, with a desperate 
impatience almost amounting to resentment in his 
voice, “ that for a foolish, childish game I played with 
your sister, to silence gossiping tongues, and of which 
now I heartily repent — do you mean to say that for 
that, you will sacrifice your own life's happiness and 
mine ? ’’ 

“ No, not for that," answered Dora. “ You have dis- 
appointed and hurt me by acting as you did. I cannot 
think so well of you as I once did ; but that alone would 
not have been enough." 

“What do you mean .? What can you have heard ? 
Has some false report got abroad ? " he questioned 
eagerly. “Tell me, that I may explain it all away, for, 
upon my honor, I know of no offence but the one we 
have discussed. ’’ 

“There is nothing to explain. You have condemned 
yourself. You have no God ; you believe in no world 
but this one ; you have no object but pleasure. I can- 
not marry you, Mr. Forrester. You would break my 


REJECTED, 


235 

heart or blight my faith. I must live my life alone, 
for I cannot share it with you.” 

He gazed at her as if thunderstruck. When he spoke 
it was with deliberate and bitter emphasis : 

“And do you mean to tell me that you are willing 
to sacrifice my whole life's happiness for a miserable 
superstition .? ” 

“ I must put God^s will before everything. He has 
shown me what His love is, and what it can do. You 
would undo his work in my heart. I cannot marry 
you.” 

“You might convert me.” 

She heard the sneer and flushed deeply. 

“I am very weak. You would be too strong for 
me.” 

“Would not your God, in whom you have such 
faith, come to your aid ? ” 

“ If I were to take a step which I felt would alienate 
me from Him, and upon which I could not expect His 
blessing to rest, how could I look to Him for aid? ” 

He sneered again. 

“Your creed is a very selfish one. Miss Egremont. 
I am glad I do not share it. You care nothing for the 
misery you inflict upon me, so long as you think you 
can get into your so-called heaven yourself. I had an 
idea Christians professed to be very loving and self- 
sacrificing towards their fellow-men.” 

She clasped her hands closely together to keep down 
her emotion. 

“ I would die for you gladly,” she answered with 
simple, earnest pathos. “ If only you and I were con- 
cerned, I would put your happiness before all else. I 
am afraid I should peril my own soul rather than give 
you pain. But that is not all.” 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


236 

“ What in the name of all that’s holy are you driving 
at ? Who else is concerned ? ” 

“Christ,” she answered, lifting her eyes to his, as 
though even the use of the sacred name gave her 
strength. “Christ, the Son of God, is concerned in 
this matter. If I marry you and deny Him, it will 
give Him pain, for He loves me more than you do. 
He died for me.” 

Forrester gazed at her speechlessly. 

“Are you a mystic — a dreamer — a fanatic? or do you 
say all this simply to torment me ? ” 

“ I say it because it is true. I must choose this day 
between my human love and the divine, and I choose 
loneliness, with Christ’s blessing, to the love and happi- 
ness of this world, which I should find with you. I am 
not speaking on the impulse of a moment ; I am neither 
a dreamer nor a mystic. I have fough:^ the battle out 
before, and you cannot move me now. My choice is 
made, and I can only wish you farewell. May the God 
whom you deny, not deny you His blessing I I shall 
pray for you.” 

She held out her hand, and he kissed it passionately. 
He would have pleaded or have threatened; but he 
was acute enough to know that he could not move her 
now. All he said was : 

“Farewell, then. We may never meet again. If 
you hear that I have come to a bad end, you will know 
that you have had a hand in the matter. You might 
have made another man of me, and you declined the 
trust. You will be in part responsible.” 

“No,” she answered gently but firmly, “I shall not 
be responsible. I have declined no trust. You know 
as well as I do that I could not make of you what you 
had no mind to be, that I am powerless to lead or guide 


REJECTED. 


237 


you ; but your own power over me would be almost 
boundless, did I give myself to you, and therefore I 
decline to do it. You are responsible for your own 
actions, and I think you are too manly and too high- 
minded to let yourself sink down to the bad end of 
which you speak. If you ever feel that you are weak, 
and need help and strength, do not go to any weak 
woman for it — go to Christ, the Son of God. He will 
hear and help.” 

He turned from her impatiently. 

“ Is that all the comfort you have got for me ? ” 

“ I can give you no better.” 

“ Good-bye, then,” he said abruptly. “It is no use 
waiting any longer. I must forget you as fast as I can. 
It is not likely we shall ever meet again. You need not 
hope or fear that you will be troubled by any further 
attentions on m)^ part. I shall renew my travels and 
soon forget this unpleasant episode. Good-bye.” 

He strode away in anger and humiliation and bitter- 
ness of spirit, feeling, as such men always do feel at 
certain times in their lives, all the hollowness and joy- 
lessness of the world they live for and the god they 
worship. But his heart was still hard, and the day of 
repentance far off. 

Dora stood still where he had left her, feeling numb 
and stunned, not quite conscious where she was nor 
what had happened. Gradually a sense of realization 
came over her, and an expression of mingled sorrow 
and satisfaction settled upon her face. 

“I believe I have done right,” she murmured. “I 
am glad it is all over. I could not stand it a second 
time. I did not know how hard it would be.” 



CHAPTER XXIII. 


SHADOWS. 


HE joyous Christmas-tide, which had always been 



▼ such a busy season for Lenore, passed quietly and 
strangely in her northern home. 

To many young girls there would have been much of 
dreariness in such a life, shut in by stress of weather in 
a vast, empty house, tenanted only by one lonely, deso- 
late woman and her servants, seeing nothing within 
doors but pale, care-worn faces, and without nothing but 
blinding snow-storms and a waste of gray, foaming 
water, whose dreary, ceaseless moaning, combined 
with the howling of the winter wind, was the only- 
sound that broke the silence surrounding that lonely, 
snow-girt abode. 

Desolation certainly reigned without — such desola- 
tion as Lenore, in her sheltered southern home had 
never dreamed of ; and yet there was a wild, weird 
beauty for her in the great, snowy, silent world without, 
which lent a certain charm, and grace even, to this 
absolute desolation. 

Lenore was neither lonely nor unhappy in this strange 
life she was leading ; on the contrary, it possessed an 
attraction and interest for her, which kept away all 
thoughts of melancholy or despondency. 


SHABOU’S. 


2Z9 

Since the last conversation recorded between herself 
and Mrs. Boghey, a very tender bond of sympathy had 
drawn the two together. A ray of light from above had 
penetrated into the recesses of a lonely, darkened heart, 
and Lenore had the happiness of seeing the gloom there 
gradually clear away, and of watching the growth of 
hope and peace, whose seeds she had been the means 
of planting. 

The stern, cold manner and the habit of self-repres- 
sion and reserve did not pass away with the change 
that had come over her nature. The sorrow of a life- 
time and the habits it has engendered cannot be laid 
aside in a few days or weeks : and to all the world 
beside, Mrs. Boghey was the same hard, loveless 
woman as before. Only Lenore’s eyes saw the change. 
Lenores heart responded to an unspoken love, which 
could not find expression in outward forms ; but only 
to her and to the faithful servant who loved her mistress 
with an unchanging devotion was this tender softening 
visible, and an equal source of happiness was it to both. 

But it appeared by-and-by to Lenore, who watched 
her with a love filial in its intensity, that the clouds of 
melancholy and oppression, which seemed somewhat 
to have cleared away, were gathering in all their 
former blackness. 

Christmas time had passed peaceful! v, and almost 
happily, in that lonely house, and Lenore had felt a 
deeper and purer joy, ministering, as she was now 
doing, to the needs of a heart left desolate , of all earthly 
and heavenly joy, than she had done in the merry days 
of Christmas festivity at Cottesmere. 

But, after that season was passed and the new year 
had come in, Lenore noticed a relapse into the old dark 
despondency and gloom. 


240 LENORE ANNANDALE, 

It came on quite suddenly, without apparent cause. 
Mrs. Boghey had been talking one evening to Lenore 
with an unusually calm sweetness, telling her that her 
coming had been a great blessing, not only to herself, 
but to the whole household, thanking her for all her 
love and care, and parting from her with a greater ten- 
derness than was at all customary. 

The next morning all was changed. 

Mrs. Boghey never came downstairs before mid-day 
during the cold weather, and since her illness she was 
often later than that. She generally sent for Lenore to 
pay her a visit after she had finished breakfast, but on 
this particular morning no such summons came. 

Much at home as Lenore was now at Auckness, there 
were traditional formalities which neither time nor 
increasing familiarity ever abolished. One of these 
was the custom of receiving the message requesting a 
visit from Lenore in her bedroom, which Mrs. Boghey 
sent by Campbell morning by morning. 

But to-day no such message arrived, and Lenore felt 
a strange misgiving as hour after hour passed by, and 
she heard and saw nothing either of mistress or of maid. 

At length the girl became really anxious to know the 
cause of this strange silence, and she went upstairs and 
lingered in the corridor, hoping to see something of 
Campbell as she passed in or out. 

This wish was soon gratified. The maid appeared, 
coming quietly from her mistress’s room, and Lenore, 
herself unseen, marked that a strange shadow, as of 
dread or haunting fear, was stamped upon the woman’s 
face. 

“Campbell,” she said softly, in an awed undertone, 
“Campbell, ia anything the matter ? ” 

The woman started violently and turned as white as 



Lenore went up to the room. Page 249 




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SI/ADO IVS-. 


241 


a sheet, whilst her eyes seemed full of a nameless 
horror. Then, when Lenore advanced from the shadows 
and showed herself, she made a violent effort to recover 
herself, and pressed her hand to her heart with a sickly 
smile. 

‘‘Why, Miss Annandale, how you startled me! 
These dark passages and these dark days do make a 
body nervous. I had no idea anybody was near ; you 
gave me quite a turn.” 

“I am very sorry,” said Lenore, wondering to hear 
the immovable Campbell speak of being nervous, and 
feeling sure from her unnatural look and manner that 
something was seriously amiss. “I did not mean to 
startle you ; I was anxious to know if Mrs. Boghey 
were ill, or if anything were wrong. I am afraid 
something has happened.” 

“Oh, no. Miss Annandale,” answered Campbell, still 
in the same hurried way, with a nervous catch in her 
voice and a wandering, shifting glance that seemed to 
be staring from one dark corner to another. ’ ’“What 
made you think that .^ ” 

“ Because she did not send for me this morning as 
she usually does. I began to be afraid that she might 
be ill.” 

“Well, she is not just herself this morning,” admitted 
Campbell, who was gradually returning to her usual 
manner. “She slept badly, and then, you know, Miss 
Annandale, the thoughts of former days do come over 
her now and again, especially in these gloomy winter 
<lays, and she does have an attack like this. Tm sure 
it’s a wonder she has not had one before. If it had not 
been for you, ma’am, and the help and comfort you 
have been, she would have been as she is now, over 
^and over again.” 


16 


242 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ You do not look well yourself, Campbell,” said 
Lenore compassionately. 

“I? Oh, I am well enough, ma’am; only when 
my lady gets like this, I always seem to feel it.” 

Can I go and see her } ” 

“ Presently — by-and-by. She said she would like 
you to come later, when she feels more tranquil. I 
will come for you when she is ready.” 

But it was evening before the summons came, and 
the intervening time seemed to hang heavily upon 
Lenore’s hands. The snow lay too deep all round the 
place to permit of outdoor exercise, and although she 
tried to play with Colin, and to keep her spirits up to 
their customary level, there seemed an oppressive 
silence and melancholy all over the house, which 
weighed her down in spite of herself. 

When at length she was summoned to Mrs. Boghey’s 
room, she found her much changed. The white face 
l6oked pinched and drawn ; the hollow eyes were full 
of that haunting look of dread which had almost died 
out of late. It was the Mrs. Boghey of the past, not of 
the present, upon whom Lenore now gazed, and her 
heart was filled with compassionate wonder and pain. 

She did not speak, nor was she spoken to. Mrs. 
Boghey sat rigidly in her chair, and Lenore just paused 
to press one soft kiss upon the white, lined brow, and 
then she crossed the room to the shadowy corner where 
the piano stood, and began to play in the soft, dreamy 
fashion which she knew was found most soothing and 
most comforting. 

When she had finished she came and took a seat at 
Mrs. Boghey’s feet, and sat there silent and quiet. She 
felt it easier to speak, or be spoken to, out of sight of 
that sadly changed face. 


SHADOIVS. 


243 


“ I am not quite well to-day, Lenore," said Mrs. 
Boghey, speaking at last in a low voice, which seemed 
to struggle after indifference. 

“ I see you are not. I am very sorry. What has 
caused it ? 

“ Nothing — it is nothing — you need not be sorry. 
It is not of the slightest consequence. Everyone of my 
age is liable to slight fluctuations of health.” 

The words and manner were alike forced and un- 
natural. Lenore was perplexed, not knowing what 
could be the cause of such a change. 

“ I hope you will be well again very soon.” 

“ Perhaps, perhaps,” answered Mrs. Boghey in the 
same strained voice ; ‘ ‘ but I have not the strength I once 
had to throw things off. You must not be surprised if 
this attack lasts some little while. They often do.” 

“ Are you subject to them.? ” 

“ I have had them before now.” 

“ Should you not see a doctor? ” 

^ ‘ A doctor ! ” repeated Mrs. Boghey, with an inde- 
scribable scorn and bitterness in her voice. “ As though 
doctor’s skill could cure me/ Ah, child ! I think it is 
only the very young, or the very credulous, that place 
any faith in doctors.” 

Lenore looked up into the dark face above her, and 
was struck by the wild melancholy that reigned there. 
It was the old look of bitter hopelessness that she had 
thought never to see again. \ 

“ Not in doctors, perhaps,” said Lenore gently ; 
“ but we may have faith in One — the Great Phy- 
sician. ” 

There was no response, and presently the girl looked 
up, only to find the cloud resting more darkly upon 
Mrs. Boghey’s face. 


244 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


It was difficult for her to go on, but she felt that 
silence was worse than anything. 

‘ ‘ He can cure troubles of mind as well as of body. 
There is nothing too hard for Him.’’ 

“My trouble is past healing,” said Mrs Boghey in 
her hardest voice. “I have had my hopes and my 
dreams of peace but there is no peace for me.” 

“ Is it gone so soon.? ’’asked Lenore sadly. “For 
you had it once. Oh, do not let go your hold upon it 
so easily ! What God has given, He never withdraws, 
unless we cast it away from us.” 

“Child,” said Mrs Boghey harshly, “you do not un- 
derstand — you cannot understand the workings of a 
mind tried as mine has been. You do not know what 
trouble is — God grant you never may ! ” 

“I do not understand,” assented Lenore quietly; 
“but One does — the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with 
grief. No trouble is too great for Him to remove.” 

“I do not ask Him to remove it,” said Mrs. Boghey ; 
“I would rather bear it.’’ 

“ He will help you to bear it.” 

“I would rather bear it alone.” 

Lenore said no more, seeing that some weight too 
heavy for her words to lighten lay upon that troubled 
spirit. What had happened that could have produced 
this effect she could not imagine ; and yet she was sure, 
from the unnatural manner of both maid and mistress, 
that some bitter wave of sorrow was sweeping over the 
latter, and submerging for a time all the hope and peace 
which had taken root in her heart. 

Ponder as she would, Lenore could not make out any 
cause for the change she saw ; but her suspicion that 
all was not well developed into actual certainty, when 


SHADOWS, 


245 

she found herself shut out from the confidence of the two 
who had grown so entirely to trust her. 

It was only in little things that she found this out ; 
it seemed as though both were anxious she should not 
guess that it was so ; but the magic of perfect sympathy 
was broken, and Lenore knew perfectly that she was 
denied some of the confidence which used to be accord- 
ed to her. It was as if an impalpable cloud hung be- 
tween her and Mrs. Boghey, which eluded any attempt 
a,t dispersion, yet steadily declined to depart. 

' Of one thing Lenore was sure, which was that noth- 
ing in her own conduct had given offence. Whatever 
the secret was, she was in nowise to blame. Mrs. 
Boghey and Campbell both made her understand this, 
each in her own way ; and with this certainty she had 
to be content. 

Two days passed thus heavily, the feeling of oppres- 
sion still hanging over the house, and Lenore had gone 
to bed at night somewhat depressed. It was a dead 
calm. The wind seemed to have shrieked and howled 
itself into exhaustion ; and something in the perfect 
silence, after many weeks of blustering storm, added as 
it were to the loneliness which encompassed that gloomy 
house and all its occupants. 

Lenore fell asleep with the soft plash of the waves 
beneath filling her ears ; and how long she slept she 
knew not. She only knew that she was presently 
awakened by a low, fierce growl from Col, who always 
slept at her bed’s foot. 

It was so unusual for him to express his feelings in 
such a way, that Lenore was startled, and listened for 
any sound which might have caused it. 

She heard presently a curious, hollow sound. What 
it was she could not imagine ; it seemed to be near, 


246 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

and yet it soiiiid:ed as if it came from deep down in the 
earth far below. The dog growled more audibly than 
before, and Lenore sat up in bed to listen. 

She heard again the same inexplicable hollow sounds, 
that seemed below her window and upon the inaccessible 
face of the cliff ; but they were so faint and so peculiar 
that she could make nothing of them. Once she thought 
it resembled footsteps in some hollow place. There 
was something altogether unpleasant in these sounds 
coming in the middle of a winter’s night, and Lenore’s 
heart beat rather fast. Colin continued to growl and to 
pace the room in an excited, restless way. 

At length Lenore got up and drew the curtain. All 
was silent now, and the moon shone brightly. She 
looked out over the sea, and down upon the ridge of cliff, 
which projected beyond the foundations of the house 
and dipped down precipitately into the waters. Certainly 
there was nothing in the stillness without to account 
for any sounds at all. Colin came up, put his paws 
upon the window-frame and looked out too, with 
pricked-up ears, as though he, at least, heard something. 

“What is it. Col.?” said Lenore, half laughing, half 
nervous ; “what do you hear ? ” 

Colin gave a low whine, and continued to gaze down- 
ward. 

Lenore heard nothing, but the next moment she gave 
a start, for a boat glided quickly and noiselessly from un- 
der the sheltef of the cliff, and, propelled by one solitary 
oarsman, cut its way rapidly and quietly through the 
heaving waters. From the absence of any kind of 
splash, as well as from their peculiar appearance, Lenore 
fancied that the oars were muffled. 

“ It is only a fisherman in his boat,” she said to her- 
self. “ It was my fancy about the oars ; I suppose he 


SHADOWS. 


247 

was careless in rounding the point, and ran his boat 
against the cliff. It was just such a sound as I heard, 
that and pushing off again. I need not have troubled 
my head so much about it. I suppose I am getting 
nervous, like the rest of the household." 

And then she fell asleep again as quietly as a child. 





CHAPTER XXIV. 


CHANGES FOR LENORE. 


HE next morning dawned bright and clear and 



▼ frosty. The sun sparkled upon the snow-covered 
ground with a dazzling brilliance. There was an ex- 
hilarating freshness in the keen air without, and Lenore 
arose refreshed and cheered, feeling more light at heart 
than she had done for many days. 

She breakfasted alone as usual, and when she had 
finished Campbell came with her customary message. 
Her manner was more composed and staid than it 
had been during the past days, but her face was white 
as a sheet, and there were dark rims round her eyes, 
which seemed to speak of a mind much troubled, and 
full of anxiety and fear. 

“ Are you ill, Campbell ? " asked Lenore quickly. 

^‘No, ma’am, thank you. ” 

“You look as though you had not slept all night,” 
continued the girl. 

Campbell gave her one sharp glance, whose meaning 
she could not fathom, but she answered in her most 
quiet and measured way : 

“My lady slept but poorly herself. I was up with her 
once or twice. She seems better this morning, and she 
would like to see you, ma’am.” 



CHANGES FOR LENORE. 


249 


Lenore went up to the room. Mrs. Boghey was 
already up, unusually early for her, and was seated in 
her chair, wrapped in a dressing-gown. She too was 
changed in a curious way, for her eyes were peculiarly 
bright, almost feverishly so, and there was a pink flush 
upon her waxen-white face, the first that Lenore had 
ever seen there, and it looked so strange, contrasting 
wdth her usual ashy paleness, that the girl felt uneasy.. 

“ Good morning, my dear," said Mrs. Boghey with 
more than usual energy. “ I trust that you have passed 
a quiet night. ’’ 

"‘Yes, thank you, Mrs. Boghey. I wish you had 
done the same." 

Lenore fancied that she started and looked disturbed ; 
and then Campbell from behind said quietly : 

“I was telling Miss Annandale that you had not slept 
quite so well as you sometimes do." 

“ I dare say it was the quiet after so much storm," 
said Lenore. ‘ I think any sudden change like that 
makes sleep more difficult." 

“ But you slept well.?" said Mrs. Boghey quickly. 

“Yes, very well,’’ answered Lenore, a fleeting thought 
of the solitary fisherman running against the rock 
passing through her mind, but seeming too trifling 
a circumstance to mention. 

“ That is well. Young people always should sleep 
well ; " and then Mrs. Boghey, dismissing that subject, 
plunged into another topic which seemed to be upper- 
most in her thoughts. 

“ I have not thought you looking very well lately, 
my dear. " 

“ I have felt quite " 

“And it seems to me that you are in need of some 
little change. You have been so sadly weatherbound 


LENORE ANATANDALE, 


250^ 

of late. I think we must manage something, or we 
shall be having you grow quite thin and pale.” 

Lenore said nothing, but smiled, waiting to hear 
more. She felt like one in a dream, knowing that more 
was meant than met the ear, and that this sudden idea 
was not grounded upon any giving way of her health. 
It was only a few weeks ago that Mrs. Boghey had 
implored her to stay, never to leave her even for a short 
time. Something had happened to put this idea into 
her head, and again a sense of mystery seemed to fall 
upon her. 

“ How would you like to spend a few days at Inver- 
bervie } They have asked you so many times, and you 
have not been able to go. I think they would be 
pleased to see you, and it would do you good to have 
a little change.' 

“They will not be expecting me,” said Lehore doubt- 
fully, “ but I can go if you think it best. Mrs. Money 
has asked me a great many times. When shall I write 
to ask if they can take me in ? ” 

“ You will not have to write, my dear. I had to 
send over to Bervie this morning, and I took that op~ 
portunity of asking if Mrs. Money would like you to 
come over this afternoon for a few days. The weather 
will permit it now, and if the frost lasts, you will be 
able to have skating and sleighing and to enjoy your- 
self as young folks should. ' The man will soon return 
with the answer, and I think it is sure to be a very cor- 
dial assent to my plan. I hope, my dear, that it will 
give you pleasure.” 

“I hope — no doubt I shall have a very pleasant 
time,” answered Lenore. “And if you can spare me, 
and think it best, I will gladly do as you suggest ; but 


CHANGES FOR LENOrE. 


251 


be sure you send for me back if you want me when 1 
am gone.” 

“ I shall miss you, my dear, we shall all miss you,” 
said Mrs. Boghey, with a subdued tenderness in her 
tone; “but I am not quite myself. I am depressed 
and unnerved, and I fear you may become the same if 
you stay here constantly with me. I should not like to 
feel that you were far away from me ; but I should like 
you to have a little change and a little society, beyond 
what this house is able to offer.” 

Mrs. Boghey spoke so naturally and affectionately, 
that for a moment Lenore’s first idea as to any secret 
motive faded into insignificance. She sat with Mrs. 
Boghey until the messenger returned with a warm as- 
sent to the proposition received, and then she was dis- 
missed to put up such things as she would need during 
her short visit, and the carriage was ordered to take 
her. The roads were hardened by the frost, and there 
was no difficulty in getting to the town of Bervie. 

“You will take your dog with you, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Boghey. “ He would be so unhappy without 
you.” 

“ Oh, yes. Col goes everywhere with me. I like to 
have him.” 

And then Lenore went to her own room, to make her 
preparations. 

Mrs. Money made what' use she could of Lenore’s 
sudden visit. She imagined at first that some rupture 
had occurred between Mrs. Boghey and her young com- 
panion, but a little talk with the girl convinced her, in 
spite of her reluctance to be convinced, that no misun- 
derstanding had taken place — that nothing but affec- 
tionate good-will existed between that oddly-assorted 
pair. 


252 


Z EXORE AXXANDALE. 

Lenore remained a fortnight at Inverbervie, and 
during that time Mrs. Money managed to convey to her 
the information that she was looked upon as a kind of 
fortune-hunter by the neighborhood, and that in time 
Mrs. Boghey’s suspicions would fall upon her, as they 
had done upon her kindred, and she would be ignomi- 
niously driven from Auckness. In addition Mrs. Money 
made it plain to her that as a matter of bare justice Mrs. 
Boghey’s wealth ought to pass to her children as the 
next-of-kin ; and in this theory Lenore fully agreed. 

Mrs. Money was always suave and kind in manner, 
yet Lenore could neither like nor trust her. Herbert 
made himself far more agreeable ; she grew to feel a 
sort of affectionate interest in him : still, the time hung 
heavy, and she longed to return, and at last wrote and 
asked permission to do so. A short yet affectionate 
letter from Mrs. Boghey granted her this permission ; 
afid the girl felt, from the few sad, loving words the 
paper contained, that she had been greatly missed and 
would be warmly welcomed back. 

So Lenore went back to Auckness, leaving Mrs. 
Money in a doubtful, dissatisfied state, hopeful, but not 
confident, that she had sown the seeds of discord and 
distrust, which would grow up and bear fruit in due 
season. 

The girl’s spirits rose as the carriage conveyed her 
back from the more populated regions round Bervie to 
the wild, snowy fastnesses that surrounded Auckness. 
She had felt shut in and imprisoned in that enclosed 
valley, and here seemed freedom and peace. 

Col, too, raced along beside the carriage in wild 
spirits, as though he was as glad as his mistress to be 
going home. 

At length the dark, silent house was reached, and 


CHANGES FOR LENORE. 


253 

Lenore descended and made her way into the hall. 
Campbell was not visible, but Annie was waiting to 
welcome her, which she did very warmly, and fairly 
hugged Col, who was an immense favorite with her. 

“ How is the mistress, Annie } ’’ asked Lenore. 

“ Eh, mem, but I’m thinking she’s no so well at all,” 
answered Annie, shaking her head gravely. “We’re 
all rarely glad to see you back, mem. 

Lenore smiled a little. 

“Well, Annie, perhaps things will be better now. I 
suppose my room is ready } I will go upstairs, and 
you shall tell me everything whilst you unpack for 
me. 

“Please, mem,” said Annie, when they had mounted 
the stairs, “ the mistress has changed your rooms. 
She said they were cold and cheerless in the cold 
weather, and we have put these to rights for you. 
They look real nice.” 

It was the two handsomest of the guest chambers 
that had been made ready for Lenore ; and very lux- 
urious and comfortable they looked, -and yet the girl 
fancied they lacked the home-like appearance of her 
old quarters, and she would rather have returned 
thither. 

“Do you know what made Mrs. Boghey think the 
other rooms too cold } ” asked Lenore as she sat beside 
the fire, warming herself after the cold journey, whilst 
Annie brought in the tea-tray and busied herself about 
the room. 

“Mrs. Campbell only said because it was cold and 
dull,” answered Annie slowly ; “the men say they hear 
steps walking about the house at night — walking in the 
wing where your rooms used to be. Miss Annandale.” 
Annie spoke now very slowly, carefully, and impres- 


254 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


sively. “John, the groom, he got up one night, to go 
and see to a sick horse, and he saw a strange figure glid- 
ing about the house, and it seemed to vanish in at one 
of the windows of the great library, but when he got 
there, the window was locked and barred. And he felt 
all in a creep, he said, but he couldn’t be comfortable 
without trying to find out something, and he went round 
the house, and kept hearing footsteps up and down and 
here and there, as though somebody was dodging him 
about the old wing, but he could find nothing and see 
nothing, and at last he went to bed all of a shiver.'’ 

‘^It must have been his fancy,” said Lenore, shiver- 
ing a little herself, in spite of her words, for Annie’s face 
was full of awe. 

“Nay, mem, nay, it was no his fancy,” returned the 
girl quickly, “ for there were strange footsteps in the 
snow next morning. John went out to look, and found 
his own and some others — a smaller foot — maybe a 
big woman’s or a small man’s he couldn^t rightly tell, 
but someone had been there.” 

“ Perhaps it was Campbell ; you know she does some- 
times take a turn in the park at night, when she has 
been much shut up during the day. Did John see what 
the figure was like ? ” 

“ It was all wrapped up in a mantle ; he could not 
see it well ; but it was too late at night for Mrs. Camp- 
bell.” 

“ Has anything been said to Campbell or to Mrs. Bog- 
hey about it ” 

“Nay, mem, there is not one of us dares say a word. 
Mr. Dyson he says there have been strange noises heard 
in the old house before now ; but never a word is al- 
lowed to be breathed about them. He says the mis- 
tress cannot bear it,” 


C:/J.VG£S FOR LENORE. 


255 

Lenore shivered a little in spite of herself. Was there 
in truth some strange mystery going on in this house, 
unknown and unexplained even to those who lived in 
its very midst.!* Was it on this account that she had 
been sent away so suddenly and so curiously, and that 
her rooms had now been crianged to quite a different 
part of the house } 

Dyson, the butler, was an old and faithful servant, 
and, although not in the confidence of his mistress like 
Campbell, knew pretty well all that went on in the 
house. 

“ How does Dyson know that they know nothing, and 
cannot find it out } " asked Lenore, feeling that she must 
learn something more about this strange story she had 
heard. 

“Because they have both grown so pale, and anx- 
ious, and changed. And then at night they go about 
and look, and try to find out what it is.” 

“ How do you know } ” 

‘ ‘ We have seen them. Mary and I got up one night. 
We could not sleep, and we kept fancying we heard 
noises, and we crept down without a light, and when 
we got down to the corridor we saw my lady and Camp- 
bell coming out of one of the rooms beyond yours, 
with a lamp in their hands ; and oh, mem, they did 
look dreadful, so white and scared ! They were in their 
dressing-gowns, as though they had been roused up by 
the noises. Mr. Dyson has seen them before doing the 
same thing. Poor dears ! ” concluded Annie, with her 
eyes full of tears, “ we all know that something dread- 
ful did happen, but they know what it was, and when 
these strange sounds come, it seems as if they can get 
no rest.” 

“ Annie,” said Lenore, “we do not understand these 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


256 

things ; but most likely there is some simple explana- 
tion of all you have told me. Is there anyone in the 
neighborhood who has a grudge against Mrs. Boghey, 
and would be likely to play a trick upon her.? ” 

Annie shook her head, and Lenore soon found that 
she had nothing fresh to impart, though she was will- 
ing enough to dilate at length upon the various strange 
sounds and fleeting visions which had been seen or 
heard. Lenore took her tea in thoughtful silence, and 
then Campbell came in to say that her mistress would 
like to see her. 

Annie had not exaggerated the case when she had 
said how much both were changed. Lenore was quite 
shocked to see how many lines of care and sorrow, and 
anxiety, a fortnight had been able to trace upon their 
faces. 

Mrs. Boghey held Lenore closely in her arms and 
murmured endearing words' over her. Fora moment 
all the hard sternness seemed to vanish, and the girl 
felt the warm tears drop slowly upon her head one by 
one. 

Then the close clasp was relaxed, and Mrs. Boghey 
put her gently back, so that she could look into her 
face, and asked : 

“Are you glad to come back to me, Lenore? ” 

“Very, very glad. ’’ 

“ This dull life does not weary you ? ” 

“Oh, no ! ” 

“I believe you, my child; I trust you. But you 
shall read these letters. You shall not remain in ignor- 
ance of what your friends say of us.” 

She gave Lenore two hurried notes from Mrs. Money, 
full of hints about her young guest ; how sadly she had 
been feeling the life at Auckness, how it had weighed 


CHANGES FOR LENORE. 


257 


upon her spirits and depressed her, and how unfit a 
position it was for a young girl to occupy. Without 
actually saying so much, she implied that Lenore’s real 
wish Avas to throw up her irksome situation and return 
home ; and Mrs. Boghey was warned in ambiguous, 
mysterious terms against making the mistake of having 
her back. An impression was left upon the mind of 
the reader that Lenore was not to be trusted, and yet 
it would be almost impossible to say how it had been 
conveyed. 

Lenore laid down the letters, and raised her clear, 
sweet eyes to Mrs. Boghey’s face. No words were 
spoken between them. 

“ Burn those papers, Lenore, and come and sit beside 
me, and tell me about your visit.” 

Lenore obeyed, and talked on in a quiet way which 
seemed to soothe Mrs. Boghey. Some of the sharp 
lines of care smoothed themselves from- the white brow, 
and the strained expression relaxed som'ewhat; yet 
there seemed a very heavy load lying upon the troubled 
spirit, a more dark and leaden cloud of sorrow than the 
girl had ever seen before. 

“ Mrs. Boghey,” she said presently, I know that you 
are in anxiety and trouble ; is there nothing I can do to 
help you 

‘‘Nothing, my child, nothing. Only pray for me. 
I cannot pray myself.” 

“I always do that,” said Lenore gently; “but pray 
for yourself, too ; it will be your greatest help ” 

“I cannot. I know not what I would ask. I know 
not what I wish.” 

“Pray ‘Thy will be done/ and then there will be no 
need for more. ” 


17 


LEJVORE ANNANDALE. 


258 

Mrs. Boghey was silent, but pressed Lenore s hand, 
tenderly. 

“Will this cloud soon pass ? ” asked the girl by-and- 
by, looking up half timidly. 

“ I cannot tell. I know not what to hope, or wish, 
or say. I can only wait and watch. ‘The Almighty 
hath dealt very bitterly with me,’ Lenore.” 

“I think,” said Lenore quietly, “that God always 
knows whom He may afflict, who they are that will 
come out purified from the furnace of sorrow. ” 

Little more was said that night. Mrs. Boghey gave 
no confidence to Lenore upon the subject of the trouble 
that was weighing her down. No allusion was made 
which could explain any of the mysterious reports afloat 
in the house. 

Only, when Lenore said good-night to Mrs. Boghey, 
she asked with a smile : 

“ When may I come back to my old rooms 

Mrs. Boghey, looked keenly at her:' 

“Do you not like the new ones 

“I like the old better. I was fond of the sea-view 
and the wildness of everything.” 

“You shall come back in time, Lenore,” answered 
Mrs. Boghey gravely, “but, trust me, you are better 
where you are for the present. And do not, if you can 
help it, let your dog be running backwards and for- 
wards to those rooms.” 




CHAPTER XXV. 

A VISITOR. 

^ FTER her return, life went on quietly at Auckness, 
and the girl tried to forget that any dark cloud 
hung over the place. It was not easy to do this, for 
day by day Mrs. Boghey grew more wan and white 
and desolate, her eyes more hollow and more darkly 
lined, her face more shrunken and wasted. Campbell 
seemed to suffer almost as much as her mistress, arid 
looked equally worn and ill, and Lenore pondered in 
vain as to the cause which could produce such a result. 
But no amount of pondering seemed to clear up the 
mystery which darkened over them each day. 

The weather had improved somewhat of late. The 
snow had melted, and the girl was able to resume her 
horse exercise. This was in itself a pleasure, and Le- 
nore rode out for several hours each day ; but nothing 
could quite bring back the elasticity to her spirits, for 
the sense of concealment, mystery, and sorrow which 
surrounded her had damped them more than a little. 

She began to think with a tender regret of Cottesmere 
Farm and the old, happy life there. She wanted to be 
with Dora, to comfort and strengthen her in this season 
of trial, of which she alone was the confidant. She had 
no thoughts of quitting Auckness ; Mrs. Boghey was 




26 o lend re anxandale. 

still her first care and her first object ; but the shadow 
which rested upon her cast a chill upon the girl’s spirit, 
and made the old, sweet confidences almost impossi- 
ble. 

She had returned one day from a long ride, and the 
twilight was just drawing on as she mounted to her 
own room. Her thoughts had been with those in the 
old home, and a little home-sickness had stolen into 
her heart. She reached her room and entered it ab- 
stractedly, but then started violently, for the figure of a 
man stood outlined against the window, and advanced 
with one long stride towards her. 

‘ ‘ Lenore ! ” 

She looked up quickly at the sound of a long un- 
heard, and yet familiar, voice. 

“Terence ! 

“Lenore !” he cried again, with a glad, loving tone 
of welcome. “My Lenore ! Oh, my darling, how I 
have wanted you 1 ” 

He drew her towards him and kissed her brow and 
lips.' She did not resist. It was such joy to her to 
hear some familiar voice, to see one of the dear faces 
from the old home. It seemed like a soft wind, laden 
wn’th sweetness, this breath from the w^orld without. 
Smiies and tears struggled for mastery in her voice. 

“ Oh, Terence ! ” she said, “oh, Terence, how did 
you come.? Oh, this is such a surprise!” 

“ I came because I could not keep away. I came 
because I felt I must. Ah, Lenore I you do not know 
how I have wanted you, how I have missed you 
through all these long, weary months 1 ” 

She smiled gratefully. It was very sweet to feel that 
she had been so missed — that the love she had almost 
doubted, had stood the test of absence, and had but 


A VISITOR. 


261 


deepened with time. She looked up at Terence, and 
read in his beautiful face only devotion and tender love. 

He drew her towards a chair, and they sat down, he 
still holding her hands in his. 

“Let me look at you, Lenore. The light is almost 
gone, but I can see you still. I think you have grown 
pale and thin. I do not think this lonely life suits you. 

I think I shall have to come and take you away. I 
cannot let you pine away up here, with nobody to take 
care of you. I shall have to take law into my own 
hands.” 

His tone was full of a tender authority, which the girl 
felt no disposition to resent. It was a pleasure to feel 
that her welfare was dear to those at home ; and even 
if Terence meant more than this, had he not a right ? 

“lam quite well and quite happy,” she answered, 
smiling, ‘ ‘ but it is good to see a home face again. I am 
glad you have come, Terence. It is very good of you. 
It is such a journey.” 

“ If it had Leen twice as long, I would have come. I 
made up my mind to that, as soon as I heard you 
were not coming back for Christmas. I only waited for 
mv leave, and then I lost no time, I was on the rail 
long before daybreak this morning, for I felt too im- 
patient to wait longer.” 

“ I am glad you have come, Terence, ’ said Lenore 
again. . “ I will ring for tea. You must be hungry and 
thirsty after your journey. We will have a cosy time 
together, and you shall tell me all the news ; but I had 
better see Mrs. Boghey first, and tell her that you are 
here. ” 

“ You need not trouble, Lenore. I have seen her 
myself. What an awful-looking woman she is ! 

“You have seen her .? ” 


262 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Yes, I had a good long talk with her. She has made 
me welcome to stay as long as I can, and she seems 
glad that you will have a companion. I suppose she is 
a little off the hook, isn’t she, Lenore } — a tile loose some- 
where.? She was most kind in all she said, but her face, 
her manner, were something quite too awful. What 
can have made her so .? ” 

“ I believe she has had a great deal of trouble to bear," 
answered Lenore, “but there is nothing odd about her. 
She is very good to me, and I am very, very fond of 
her." 

“ She seems very fond of you." 

“I believe she is, but she is not demonstrative. I 
think we understand one another." 

“She calls you a ministering angel — a pretty strong 
expression for an undemonstrative woman." 

Lenore smiled, sighing at the same time. 

“You mean to stay here so long as she wishes ? "asked 
Terence. 

“ I believe I shall stay so long as I can be any com- 
fort to her. ’’ 

“And that will be till the end of her life." 

“Very likely it will. Sometimes, Terence, I think 
she cannot live long." 

They sat together in the deepening twilight, silent and 
thoughtful. Then Terence drew a long breath like a 
sigh, and said : 

“Well, Lenore, if it must be so, it must. It may be 
your duty to remain, and help and comfort her, as you 
say. If she has had trouble to bear already, I will not 
be the one to add to it by trying to take you away. It 
is weary work without you — waiting, and never seeing 
you ; but that is better than feeling I have selfishly stood 
in the way of another’s happiness." 


A F/S/TO/^. 


263 

Terence spoke with some feeling, and Lenore pressed 
his hand in token of gratitude and assent. She was 
grateful to him for the sympathy he showed towards 
Mrs. Boghey, and she did not, in her present mood, 
resent the implied authority he assumed over her. 

“I am glad you feel so, Terence ; I hope they all feel 
the same, ” said Lenore. “ I know my duty lies here, 
yet I should not like them to think that I had needlessly 
deserted them. But tell me how they all are. I am 
hungry for home-news. Letters are so unsatisfactory ; 
they tell so little. And, oh, Terence, I am so glad 
you are come to stay a little while. I almost wonder 
Mrs. Boghey made you so welcome. There is no man 
in our household ; and, after all, our cousinship is only 
nominal. " 

Terence laughed in his low, soft way, and gently 
caressed the hand he held. 

“It was not as your cousin that I introduced myself, 
Lenore, but as your affianced husband. 

She gave a little start, and the color swept over her face. 

“Oh, Terence, ” she said softly, “but that was hardly 
true, you know. 

“ You can make it true, LenOre,” he said, bending his 
head lower over her, and speaking in a more firm and 
manly way than was usual with him. “ Listen to me, 
Lenore, and let us settle this matter one way or another, 
at once and for all. I love you — you know I love you, 
and we are half pledged already to one another. I find 
that a half pledge is not enough. I thought it would 
satisfy me ; but it does not. I crave for more love, 
more certainty ; 1 cannot rid myself of the haunting 
fear that I may lose you. Hear me, Lenore. I would 
not have you sacrifice yourself for me ; if you cannot 
marry me, let us part, and I will try to live it down ; 


264 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


but if you have some love for me, if you can trust your 
future to me, if you can give me the assurance for which 
I crave, the pledge I have asked before — then I can 
leave you a happier and better man ; and I will wait 
patiently until your labor of love is ended, before I 
claim you for my own. But let me have an answer, 
Lenore ; let us go on no longer in this uncertain way. 
You shall never repent your promise, if once you plight 
your troth to me. " 

Terence spoke, with less of impulse and with more 
of manly, simple straightforwardness than in old days, 
and Lenore’s heart was touched. What could she say } 
What should she say } After the half-promise she had 
made, could she draw back and take from him all that 
once she had granted, and send him hopeless away ; 
Might not this soul be given to her, if she would but 
accept the charge.? If a life’s destiny lay in her 
hands, could it be right to cast the responsibility lightly 
away .? She knew she was by far the stronger of the 
two, and that she would be able to lead and guide him. 
In old days this consciousness of superior strength had 
mode her feel a shrinking from and distrust of Terence ; 
but just now, when he had come upon her in her lone- 
liness and home-sickness, and had cheered her by his 
tenderness and comforted her by his sympathy, all 
those feelings had passed, and the love she bore to all 
the race who had been her friends and benefactors from 
childhood was strong upon her, and the prevailing feel- 
ing in her heart was loving gratitude. 

There was a long pause after Terence’s appeal, 
whilst the girl revolved many things in her mind. 
Then she spoke slowly and gently. 

“Terence,” she said, “ you must listen to me now, 
and hear what I have to say, and then you yourself 


A VISITOR. 


265 


shall decide your own fate and mine. I have very 
high and holy views of the depth and infinity of love 
which a wife should give her husband. Perhaps my 
standard is too high, perhaps a lesser love may be 
enough for happiness — I cannot tell how that may be ; 
I can only tell you what I feel. I believe I have an 
infinite, boundless love to give ; but, Terence, I cannot 
give that love to you. Why these things are, and how 
we know them, I cannot tell ; all I can say is just that 
— the best and purest love in my heart can never be 
yours. I can love you, Terence, and I do love you. 1 
think I could love you more than I do already, but 
there will always be a limit ; my whole heart and soul 
can never be yours. I do not think any such reserva- 
tion should exist between husband and wife; tome 
there would always be a flaw in that most holy bond. 
But I do not want to think only of myself. I believe 
our lives were given us to live as much for others as 
for ourselves. Terence, I am ready to live mine for 
you, if you are convinced that it would be for your 
welfare and happiness, here and hereafter. Leave me 
to my duties here so long as they shall last, be it months 
or years, and after that time, if you wish it, I will be 
your wife. There, I have told you all ; it is for you to 
decide.” 

“I have decided,” he answered tenderly, and folded 
her in his arms. 

And so Lenore s choice was made and her fate de- 
cided. She had elected to make this sacrifice of her 
own happiness for Terence's, if he persisted in his wish 
to marry her, and now the decision was made, and 
there was no drawing back to be thought of. Yet Le- 
nore was in no wise unhappy ; she did not feel as 
though the sacrifice had been a hard one. Terence 


266 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


was more loveal^le in her eyes to-day than ever he had 
been before; and her own unselfish nature enabled her 
to share in the happiness she had bestowed upon him. 
She was still very young, not yet three-and-twenty, and 
unable, with all the thoughtfulness and womanliness of 
her character, to estimate the full meaning of the words 
‘ ‘ unequally yoked. " The glow of happiness which an act 
of self-sacrifice and devotion always brings with it, was 
still upon her, and there was no place as yet in her 
heart for misgiving or regret. 

It was a happy evening that those two spent together. 
Annie brought in the tea, and looked smilingly at them 
as she waited upon them, and Mrs. Boghey did not 
appear at dinner, so that there was no sense of restraint 
upon their talk. Terence was very tender and gentle, 
and watched Lenore about, with eyes that shone with 
loving pride and happiness. The girl felt very happy, 
too. It was so strange, in this lonely house, to be 
cared for and caressed, so pleasant to see a familiar 
face, and so delightful to talk over old times and to hear 
all the news from Cottesmere. 

Since hearing the sad history of Alan Boghey 's life 
and death, Lenore had been filled with very grave 
thoughts of such responsibilities as are imposed on 
mankind by the weaknesses of their fellow-men. -Sup- 
pose that Terence, loving, weak, well-meaning Ter- 
ence, should fall as Alan Boghey had done Would 
she ever be able to forgive herself, had she denied him 
the help he had asked But all doubt was over now. 
she had elected to follow out what seemed to her to be 
the path of duty. She was Terence Egremont's affi- 
anced wife, and already the love she had always borne 
him, to a small degree, had begun to grow more deep 
and strong. 


A VISITOR. 


267 

When she went to say good-night to Mrs. Boghey, 
her hands were held in a loving clasp, and a deep, 
searching look was bent upon her. 

“You are not going to leave me, Lenore ? ” 

“ Never so long as you need me." 

“You promise me that, child.? " 

“I promise." 

The set face relaxed a little, and Mrs. Boghey smiled 
in her dreamy, far-off way. 

“Are you happy to-night, Lenore .? " 

“Yes." 

“You are glad he has come to see you .? " 

“Yes." 

“ And some day you are to be his wife? ^ 

“We are engaged to be married." 

“ I shall not live to see that day," said Mrs. Boghey 
slowly and sadly. “Yet I think I can see it now. Oh, 
my child, if he will be as good a husband as you will 
be a wife, I need not fear for your future." 

Lenore made no answer. 

“ Child," continued Mrs. Boghey hoarsely, “I mar- 
tied for a handsome face and winning manner, and I 
was a miserable woman. You are not going to do the 
same ? " 

‘‘Oh, no ! " answered Lenore earnestly. 

“Lenore, do not mistake the glamour of a youthful 
love for the real, holy, sacred feeling which alone is 
worthy the name. Only one thing can make a married 
life tolerable, and that is perfect love. God bless you, 
my child ! May you be as happy as you deserve to 
be!" 

Terence stayed a week at Auckness, and saw Mrs. 
Boghey several times, and sometimes alone. She 
questioned him as to his worldly prospects, and finding 


268 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


them uncertain, she once dropped a hint that Lenore 
would not be forgotten in her will. “ Spare her to me," 
said the lonely woman, “so long as I live ; she shall 
come to you with a daughters portion." 

Terence promised he would never take Lenore away ; 
and when he left, the parting was a loving one, and he 
left behind him many tender memories. Mrs. Boghey 
parted from him with gentle words of motherly coun- 
sel ; Lenore with the kiss of more than a sisterly affec- 
tion. Her word was pledged, and she accepted the 
position she had taken up, with the earnestness char- 
acteristic of her. 

Some few days later Mrs. Boghey told Lenore that 
she intended to leave her property to her ; but Lenore 
gently and firmly put away from her the proffered boon. 

She quietly told her patroness that it seemed almost 
unjust in her eyes to leave property to strangers, when 
there were relatives to inherit ; and in her simple way 
she explained that neither she nor Terence looked for a 
^life of ease or wealth, and that work would certainly be 
the best discipline for him as well as for her. 

“Mrs. Boghey listened with a quiet, intent look 
stamped upon her face. At the close of the interview 
she said : 

“You have been more than a daughter to me, Le- 
nore ; I meant to have left you a daughter’s portion, 
but perhaps you have judged wisely and well. But I 
ought not to, and cannot, forget you. Five thousand 
pounds will pass into your hands at my death, and you 
may write and inform Terence Egremont of this fact." 

And with a gesture of the hand Lenore was dis- 
missed, before she had time to utter words either of 
remonstrance or gratitude. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

_THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 

H ardly had Terence taken his departure, before 
the dark cloud which rested upon the household 
at Auckness seemed to descend yet lower, and to wrap 
the whole household in its impalpable folds. 

It was as though the visitor had been alarmed by 
the presence of an outsider in the house, and had with- 
drawn -more into itself so long as he remained, and 
that, as soon as he went, it reappeared, prepared to re- 
assert itself more firmly than before. 

Night by night Lenore was disturbed by Col’s rest- 
lessness and perturbation, and yet she felt a protection 
in his presence, and would not have liked to be with- 
out him in her room. 

After Mrs. Boghey’s prohibition she could no longer 
take any steps to try and solve the mystery, and yet it 
was very hard to remain inactive and incurious, whilst 
eill manner of strange, inexplicable sounds troubled her 
rest night by night. 

Removed as she now was to some distance from the 
east wing, yet in the silent hours of the night, when the 
deep stillness around her magnified any sound to more 
than its wonted significance, she heard distinctly the 
sound of muffled footsteps passing to ^nd fro, heard 



270 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


low-toned voices in seeming deep discussion, and many 
other noises for which no theory could account. 

However vigorously Mrs. Boghcy and Campbell 
might be prosecuting their search after the invisible 
enemy, they could hardly do so night by night and 
almost all night long ; yet these voices and footsteps 
were to be heard so continuously that it became im- 
possible for Lenore to believe that they belonged to 
them. 

Annie, too, began to look more pale and frightened 
than ever. She told of strange dreams which had 
troubled her, w-hich she attributed to some misfortune 
threatening the Boghey family. And stories were told 
by the fisher-folk of lights gleaming late at night from 
the windows in the east wing, and of smoke curling 
continuously from one chimney, which could not be 
seen except from the sea-side of the house. 

Campbell was hardly seen by Lenore from day s end 
to day’s end, and Mrs. Boghey’s room began to have 
the neglected look of a place not properly attended to ; 
and, at last, when . Mrs. Boghey’s strength seemed ready 
to give way altogether, and her looks frightened even 
a most casual observer, there came a night which Le- 
norc never forgot so long as she lived — a night in which 
the whole dark mystery was solved. 

She had gone to bed very much oppressed and 
disquieted. Mrs. Boghey had been extremely unwell 
throughout the day, and yet Campbell had hardly been 
near her. Lenore had taken entire charge. Campbell 
was in her own room resting, Mrs. Boghey kept repeat- 
ing. She had had a disturbed night, and she had been 
ordered by her mistress to lie down and take some 
sleep. But when something Mrs. Boghey wanted 
could not be found, and Lenore, unknown to her, went 


THE MYSTER Y SOL VED. 


271 


Up to Campbell’s room to ask her for it, she was not 
there, nor could she be found anywhere in the house. 
More than once Mrs. Boghey had vanished in the same 
mysterious way, and, when Lenore had returned from 
some errand on which she. had been sent, was nowhere 
to be found. Each time she came back looking as 
white as a sheet, and said she had been in one of the 
rooms in which Lenore had looked in vain for her. 

The girl had gone to bed in a very disturbed and 
anxious state, and soon found it impossible to sleep. 
The footsteps and voices were more continuous than 
ever ; there even seemed a perpetual opening and shut- 
ting of doors in the east wing ; and the customary cau- 
tion and quietness was laid aside, as it appeared, for 
never had the sounds been so distinct before. 

^t last she could stand it no longer. She rose and 
dressed herself, and, stirring up the fire, sat down and 
tried to read her Bible, and not to listen to the sounds 
from without. 

She grew more calm by degrees, and the house be- 
came more quiet ; but just as she was thinking of re- 
turning to bed, she was startled by the sound of stealthy 
footsteps approaching her door. 

Her heart beat more fast than was its wont as the 
steps halted just outside. Then came a low, distinct 
knock. 

‘ ‘ Who is there ? ” 

“ It is I — Campbell,” said the woman’s voice outside, 
with a strange, fearful cadence in it. “Miss Annan- 
dale, can I speak to you .? ” 

Lenore rose and opened her door. Campbell stood 
without, holding a light in her hand. Her face was 
colorless as marble, and it§ expression full of pain and. 
fear and despair. 


272 


LP:.\ ' 6 ' RE A A' A A 'DA L E. 


“ Campbell ! ” cried Lenore, with a sudden start, and 
then was silent, not knowing what to say more. 

“You are up and dressed, ma’am ? said the woman 
in her usual quiet way. 

“Yes, I could not sleep. I cannot help hearing all 
these strange sounds. I know that all cannot be well. 
Oh, Campbell, Campbell ! what does it all mean .? 

The woman put down her lamp suddenly, cast her 
apron over her head, and broke into hard, tearless sobs, 
most painful to hear. 

Lenore watched and listened with a beating heart. 

“ Campbell, ” she said, “oh, what is it.? Can I not 
do something.? Indeed, indeed, you may trust me. 
What is it you want of me .? ” 

With a great effort Campbell mastered her emotion 
and recovered the power of speech. 

“My lady has bid me fetch you. Will you come to 
her .? Miss Annandale, will you be afraid to look upon 
death.?” 

“ I think not,” she answered, and looking quickly at 
Campbell with a pale face-and dilated eyes asked, “Is 
she worse .? — dying .? ” 

“No, no, not that. She will be the next; but .she 
will live to drink the last dregs of sorrow. Come to 
her, ma’am. She must tell you, not I.” 

Again came those fearful, long-drawn breaths so 
painful to listen to ; but Campbell did not give way. 
She took up her lamp and looked at Lenore. 

“ I will follow you,” said the girl, and she followed 
like one in a dream. 

It was not to Mrs. Boghey’s room that Campbell led 
the way. With a start, half of dismay and half of satis- 
faction, Lenore saw that it was the east wing that 
was her destination. 


THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 


273 

Past the doors of her old rooms they went, and Camp- 
bell did not pause until she reached the last door at the 
end of that dim corridor — the door which, ever since she 
had been at the house, had been kept strictly locked. 

It was not locked now, for Campbell opened it softly, 
and a stream of subdued light stole out into the dark 
corridor. Lenore’s heart beat fast as the maid turned 
and signed to her to enter ; but she showed no out- 
ward sign of fear, and quietly followed her into the room. 

It was a large apartment, dimly lighted by carefully 
shaded lamps. A high folding screen shut off a great part 
of the room. What Lenore saw was nothing very remark- 
able : a round table, upon which stood some bottles 
and glasses, a few books, and some other trifles, a 
couch, against the end of which Mrs. Boghey seemed 
to lean somewhat heavily as she stood, and a few of 
the high-backed chairs common to all the rooms in that 
house. 

The windows were closely shuttered and the curtains 
drawn, and what struck Lenore more than anything, 
was the atmosphere, which seemed to her that of a 
sick-room, pervaded with the odor of drugs, and 
warm with the equable heat of a carefully regulated 
temperature. What was hidden from her view by the 
screen she could not tell ; but she fancied she heard the 
sound of quick, hard breathing. 

“You have come, Lenore; it is well," said Mrs. 
Boghey, whose nvnd seemed wrought to such a pitch 
of tension, that there was no place left for any of the 
old reserve of distrust. Her voice was low, and her 
words more rapidly spoken than usual ; she looked at 
Lenore with hollow, hungry eyes, as though she would 
read her very soul, and* see if there was help or com- 
fort to be found with her. “Are you afraid? " 

18 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


274 

“Afraid of what ? 

“Of death. ” 

“ No ; I am not afraid.” 

“Is there hope in death, Lenore Annandale ? Can 
the dying make their peace with your God.? ” 

“God answers that question Himself: ‘ Let him that 
is athirst come, and whosoever will, let him take of 
the water of life freely.' It is God’s Spirit that says 
‘Come,’ and ‘whosoever will’ is an invitation without 
any reservation.” 

Lenore felt as one who dreams, though her words 
came in unwaAmring tones, which seemed to emphasize 
their significance. What could be the meaning cf this 
strange summons? and what mystery was about to be 
unveiled to her at this still hour, betwixt night and 
day? Was she called to bring God’s message of love 
and peace to some unhappy, dying soul ? Who could 
it be that was dying here, in this deserted room at 
Auckness ? 

“Campbell,” said Mrs. Boghey, “does he sleep? 
Can he speak and understand ? ” 

Campbell vanished behind the screen ; and ]\Irs. 
Boghey turned to Lenore, and said in the same re- 
pressed way : 

“Lenore Annandale, God sent you here to comfort 
me and keep me from despair. Now do the same office 
for another — help and comfort my son.” 

“Your son?” ^ 

“My most wretched, miserable son. Tell me, 
Lenore Annandale Ah ! what is that ? ” 

From behind the screen came- the sound of a chok- 
ing, gurgling sigh. Mrs. Boghey’s ghastly face grew 
one degree more ghastly. 

“Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “it has come at last ! ” She 


THE MYSTER Y SOL VED, 


275 

took Lenore’s hand and led her behind the screen. 
One glance at an almost skeleton form, which lay 
there upon the bed, showed the girl that this was in- 
deed the son of the miserable mother, who leaned 
upon her shoulder, and that death had all but set his 
seal upon that marble brow. 

A tremor ran through Lenore’s frame, but it w'as not 
fear. Instinctively she knelt by the bedside, and with 
all the fervor of her own living faith and hope, she com- 
mended into the hands of the Everlasting Father the 
erring, sin-stained soul which was even now taking its 
flight. 

It was all she could do, all that human love could 
do, and it was done with a calm, steadfast confidence 
in the eternal mercy of God, through the atoning blood 
of the Lamb, which could not but bring with it some 
sense of peace to those two devoted women, who, 
even as the girl rose from her knees, watched the last, 
labored breath drawn by that motionless form. 

Lenore stood perfectly still a full minute, and then 
looked slowly round. Mrs. Boghey and Campbell 
stood together at the bed’s foot, gazing upon the dead 
face. 

It is over at last,’’ said Campbell in a low, tearless 
tone — “over at last.” 

Lenore saw Mrs. Boghey turn toward the speaker, 
heard her gasp out in hard, quick tones, “Campbell, 
Campbell — my son — my son ! ” and then she stole 
quietly away to her own room, feeling that the faithful 
two, who had suffered so long and so terribly together, 
should be left alone in their grief, in the presence of the 
silent dead. 

It was three days before Lenore saw Mrs. Boghey 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


276 

again ; and when at length, in the dimness of an early 
twilight, she was summoned to the darkened room, 
she could not but be struck by the change that had passed 
upon the haggard face. 

It looked indeed as if the unhappy mother had not 
long to wait before following her son. 

“ Lenore, do you forgive me.? were her first words. 

“ P'orgive what ? 

“ Forgive me for deceiving you.” 

“ Did you deceive me ? ” 

“You know that I did. You remember what I told 
you, when you asked me about the sounds you heard .? ” 

“ Yes ; did you know then what you know now? ” 

“ I knew everything. I told you falsehood after 
falsehood on purpose to deceive you.” 

Lenore looked perplexed and distressed. 

“ Do not think I distrusted you, Lenore. I would 
have told you all if I had dared. But my son’s life lay 
in the balance. One rumor of his presence here would 
have brought the Grahams swooping down upon «s — 
they have been here before now on some trivial suspi- 
cion. Once let them hear of strange sights and sounds, 
and they would have been here before we knew they 
were near ; and had they found my son, he must 
surely have been branded as a felon, and bound over 
to what would have been a life-long imprisonment.” 
She shuddered strongly. “Lenore, do you wonder 
now that I guarded my secret jealously ? ” 

“Indeed, no,” answered the girl earnestly ; “but did 
you fear me? I would not have betrayed your secret.” 

“ Would you have lied, Lenore Annandale ? ” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Boghey. “ You have seen how I could look 
even a friend in the face and lie without a sign of 
shame. Could you have done the same ? ” 


THE MYSTERY SOL YE D. 


277 


Lenore was silent. 

“ That is why we could not trust you — we could not 
trust you to lie. Had these idle servants' tales got wind, 
we might have had the Grahams down upon us — They 
would have questioned and cross-questioned you with- 
out mercy, as they have cross-questioned Campbell and 
me before. We have lied to them until they have been 
forced to believe us. Could you have done the same ? 
We talked it over, and decided that you could not. 
That, and that alone, has been our reason for excluding 
you from our confidence." 

That was all that Lenore heard from Mrs. Boghey for 
a long while about her unhappy son and his miserable 
later life. It seemed as though the subject was one she 
could not bear to dwell upon, and it was not one which 
Lenore could introduce unasked. 

How the arrangements for the funeral were made 
Lenore did not know. Very early one dark morning 
the coffin was carried out by a few fishermen, to the 
little chapel near to the house, and the service was read 
by the aged clergyman, who had known Mrs. Boghey 
almost all her life. 

There was no plate on the coffin, no name upon the 
grave. Campbell gave out that the body of a poor 
fisherman had been found in the cellars under the east 
wing, where he had evidently been living for some days 
or weeks unsuspected and undetected. 

This story gave rise to a good deal of talk, but as it 
seemed to explain a great deal of the mystery which 
had seemed to pervade the house, and accounted for many 
odd noises and sights, it was received readily and firmly 
believed in, and became a favorite tradition through- 
out the neighborhood. 

Lenore held her peace, avoiding the subject as far as 


278 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

possible, and only listening to what was said without 
joining in the talk. Some inquest upon the body had, 
of course, been held, but no evidence had been required 
from her ; and the unsuspecting country folks who had 
come in an official capacity to Auckness were quite sat- 
isfied by Campbell’s story, and granted the order for 
interment without the least idea whose body they were 
looking upon. It could matter little, now that the un- 
happy man was dead, Lenore thought, even if the world 
did know the whole story ; but it seemed as if the 
secret, so jealously guarded during his lifetime, must be 
guarded to the very end and buried in a nameless grave. 

It was from Campbell that Lenore heard at length the 
end of the mournful story, of which she had been told 
only the first part. 

They were again together in Mrs. Boghey’s room at 
night, sitting over the fire in the dim light after she had 
fallen asleep. She had been suffering for many days 
from extreme debility and nervous prostration, and it 
was as much as the two could do to keep her mind 
from a perilous tension of excitement. 

Now at last the overwrought brain was at rest, the 
wearied frame reposing peacefully, and the two watch- 
ers drew nearer to each other, fearful of disturbing this 
hardly-earned sleep by any incautious movement or 
word. 

But Mrs. Boghey slept on calmly, and as the slumber 
deepened, they grew less afraid of interrupting its quiet 
course. 

Campbell was the first to speak, and she did so with a 
long-drawn breath like a heavy sigh. 

“Ah, Miss Annandale, she will be the next to go. 
She has live.d to the very end, as I knew she would ; 
but it has sapped away all the life that is in her. She 


THE MYSTERY SOL FED. 


279 


will never hold up her head again. He died before her 
eyes, too — died all but in darkness and despair. I had 
never thought it would be so — never dreamed of that.” 

“He is in God’s hands now.” said Lenore, “and 
God’s love is infinite. 1 think we may have faith in 
the eternal mercy of the Heavenly Father.” 

. “Yes, yes. I do try to have faith, but the trial has 
been a long and weary one. I have thought it all but 
endless. 1 am full of thankfulness that at last it has 
ended, for I have often feared that the strain would be 
too great, and that one or both would give way, and 
the rum of the house be consummated. ” 

“Campbell,” said Lenore, “will you tell me all about 
it ? You told me half the story once. Will you finish 
it now ? I know the very end ; I think there is no 
reason why I should not be told what lies between.” 

“ No, there is none. My lady bid me tell you all 
now, if ever you asked the question. She cannot talk 
of it ; it is overmuch for her even to think too much ; 
but it is fair you should hear all, and know why we de- 
ceived you, whilst you trusted and helped us. It went 
against us both to do it, but the secret had to be kept 
at all cost. ” 

“I understand about that. Mrs. Boghey told me 
that part. ” 

“Were we very wicked, Miss An nan dale .? ques- 
tioned the woman wistfully. “Is it a great sin to speak 
an untruth to save a life — two lives, I might say - 
those of mother and son both ? Was it a very bad sin ? 
Can God forgive, who knows all the secrets of our 
hearts ? ” 

“God can and will forgive all sin that is repented of; 
you know that, Campbell.” 

“Was it very wicked, ma’am? Ought we to have 


28 o 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


g-iven him up rather than lie ? What would you have 
done?'’ 

“It is hard to say always what one would have done 
under temptation, and we cannot judge and must not 
condemn one another ; but, Campbell, I always think 
we should try and do right, and speak the truth bravely, 
and leave the consequences in Gods hands. Then we 
can ask His blessing and throw ourselves upon His 
mercy, as we never can do whilst we are breaking His 
laws. ” 

Campbell sighed and shook her head. 

“I have thought the same myself at times, but we 
had not faith enough to trust to Him.” 

“ It is not always easy to do it, but we have only to 
try, and then we see how foolish our fears are. But 
your story, Campbell ; begin from where you left off 
once, when the news came of Alan Boghey s death. 
Was that not true either?” 

“It was true enough that the news reached us. He 
had been killed, they said, in a railway accident in 
America; and when weeks and months passed away, 
and we heard no word from him, we made up our 
minds that the report was true, and that we should see 
him no more. I was thankful when that assurance came 
to us, for I thought it would be the beginning of better 
days for my lady. It seemed as though at last she 
was able to know something of a peace of mind which 
formerly had been utterly out of reach. 

“ And did it not last ? ” 

“Not more than a year — hardly so much. I remem- 
ber well the night when all my dreams of peace and 
rest were shattered in a single moment. It was winter 
time, and quiet, snowy weather bound us in from all 
the world. My lady had grown more quiet and more 


THE MYSTER Y SOL VED, 


281 


calm during- those long months of freedom from fear 
and anxiety. That very evening I had been saying to 
myself that her dark days were over, and that her old 
age would not be rendered miserable, as her life had 
been, by the wickedness of those nearest and dearest to 
her, and, even as I wasthinking these things to myself, I 
went up to my room, and started, and almost screamed. 

“ He had come back ? He was alive.? " 

“Yes, he had come back — as usual, in trouble and 
fear, like a hunted creature flying from its pursuers. It 
was always so with him. He never could keep out of 
harm’s way ; he must rush straight into trouble, if ever 
there was trouble near. He told me his story before he 
went down to face his unhappy mother. He had been 
in the railway accident of which we had heard, and had 
been hurt near to death. He lay months in hospital, 
never expecting to recover. It was he who had caused 
the news of his death to be sent to us. As he lay sick, 
he resolved that, even if his health were restored, he 
would never come back to us, to be a burden and a dis- 
grace to his mother. She should believe him dead, and 
should never hear of him more. He recovered. He 
adhered to his resolve a good while ; but, like all his 
resolutions, it did not bind him long. Again, through 
his own reckless ways, he found himself an outcast, 
flying from the pursuit of justice, and he fled here to 
the place which had sheltered him before in time of 
need.’’ 

“ How did he come ? How could he get here with- 
out being seen.? I have wondered so often how he 
managed that. ” 

“ He came by sea. There are caves in the rocks 
under the east wing, which can only be approached at 
certain states of the tide, and there is a secret way from 


282 


LENORE AAWANDALE. 


one of the caves into the house. I believe nobody but 
Mr. Alan himself knew the ins and outs of this way of 
entrance, but by it he has come and gone many a time 
these past years.” 

“ But how did he get to the cave 'i ” 

'‘By a boat from some foreign vessel pasdng near, 
this coast. He understood how to arrange all that, 
and he could wait his time, and on some calm night 
would get put across by some ship’s boat, and then 
would make his way to the cave, and so into the house. 
We knew nothing of his movements, save that he would 
appear at intervals, and our lives were a burden of 
terror and anxiety so long as he remained here.” 

“ How dreadful ! ” 

“Dreadful it was, more dreadful than I can say. 
Mr. Alan, he always grew rash, and would not use the 
care we begged about noise and light and many other 
things ; and he would go out at night, and wander 
about the place, and we had terrible scares that he 
would be seen, and even as it was strange things were 
said ; and more than once we had the Graham brothers 
down here, in full cry after him, or traces of him, when 
he was actually in the house. I don’t believe they ever 
were convinced of his death. They always seemed so 
full of suspicion.” 

“ How dreadful ! ” said Lenore again, wondering less 
and less at Mrs. Boghey’s changed appearance. “ Why 
was he allowed to stay .? ” 

“He often would not go. He would not believe in 
his own danger. We had sad work sometimes to send 
him away, even when detection stared him in the face. 
Oh, Miss Annandale, if you had heard some of the 
scenes between that unhappy man and his more mis- 


THE MYS TER Y SOL VED. 283 

erable mother, your heart would ache for her, as mine 
has done." 

Lenores heart ached already, and her face showed it. 

“And tltis last visit — tell me about it." 

“ He had been longer away than usual. We never 
knew anything of his whereabouts unless he wrote for 
money, and when he did so, it was always for so large 
a sum that there was no need to hold any further com- 
munication for a long while. Letters were dangerous, 
and my lady was glad that but few were needed. Well, 
he had been silent longer than usual. Your presence 
had done us good, and we had begun to breathmaore 
freely and to take comfort. Do you remember the day 
when my lady seemed to change, when she would not 
see you at first .? On that morning there had come a 
letter from Mr. Alan to say that he was close at hand, 
and might appear any day. One night soon after, he 
came, and we were in a terrible fright that you would 
see him, and either be terrified at the mystery we made 
of his presence, or else find out the truth. That is why 
you were sent to Inverbervie, and why your rooms were 
changed. But my mistress missed you sorely when 
you were gone; we all did that, and she most of all; 
and right glad were we to have you back, even though 
our secret was in some little danger." 

“And did he fall ill whilst he was here.? " 

“ He was ill when he came. He looked dreadful 
from the first ; but he would take no care, and would 
go out at night, and be as careless and reckless as ever. 
He grew more weak and ill by-and-by, and became 
much more quiet and tractable — this was whilst Mr. 
Kgremont was here — and then all of a sudden he gave 
way, and we knew at once that he must die." 

“ What did you do } Did you have no doctor.? " 


284 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ We dared not, and he would not hear of it ; besides, 
no doctor could have saved him. It was the lungs. 
He had been told not long before, by a doctor, that his 
days were numbered, and that only extreme care could 
prolong his life. He had taken none, and he knew 
from the first that it was ‘ all up with him, ’ as he said. 
How to nurse him we did not know. Night and day 
we had to be with him. He was fretful and exacting, 
and could not bear to be alone. I took him by night, 
and relieved my lady by day when I could. It was a 
dreadful time, made more dreddful by his despair and 
wickedness. You know the end. It came more sud- 
denly than we had thought, and we sent for you, be- 
cause our hearts had growm cold and dead with misery, 
and our comfort had all gone from us. I am glad you 
came ; 1 am glad you know all, because you have been 
a friend in need to us, and deserve confidence from us.” 

That was the end of the melancholy story of Alan 
Boghey, as Lenore heard it from Campbell’s lips ; and 
after that narration no further allusion was made to his 
most unhappy life and death. The dead past was left 
to bury its dead in merciful oblivion. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

Dora’s return. 

T he winter months, which had passed so eventfully 
for Lenore in her far-away northern home, proved 
peculiarly quiet and uneventful to the inhabitants of 
Cottesmere Farm. 

All incident and excitement seemed to vanish with 
the sudden disappearance of Gordon Forrester from the 
neighborhood ; and the manner of his departure gave 
rise to a good deal of speculation and discussion. 

Duff was the only person who was made aware at 
first hand of what had taken place. He received a few 
pencilled lines, containing the following information : 
“ Your sister has refused me. I'm off again, I don't 
know where — Good-bye. ’’ 

Duff, however, kept his own counsel and said noth- 
ing of what he had heard ; yet the secret oozed out 
in some mysterious way, and soon the whole neighbor- 
hood had an inkling as to what had taken place. 

Later on they knew how this had T)een, for Terence 
came over to the farm in a state of considerable ex- 
citement and anger, to knovv what they could all be 
thinking of. 

Forrester had been met by some of his friends and 
Terence’s fellow-officers on his way abroad, in a very 


286 


Z /Z\ ( >Z/: AXXANDALE. 


gloomy and irritated state of mind, and he had reck- 
lessly spoken of his rejection at Dora s hands, and his 
consequent determination to leave the country. 

“ Where is Dora? ” was Terence s first question, after 
he had made known the substance of this information. 

“She comes home to-morrow,'’ answered Philip, who 
had listened very quietly to his brother’s excited talk. 

“ I hope you will speak seriously to her when she 
does. Don’t spare her. I have no patience with such 
folly, and vanity, and selfishness ! ” 

Philip lifted his eyebrows. 

“What do you mean ? What has she done ? ” 

“ Haven’t I told you? Plaven’t you taken it in yet ? 
Gone and refused Forrester — the wealthiest man in the 
county.” 

Terence fairly fumed in his indignation. “She must 
be mad.” 

“She had a perfect right to refuse him. I cannot see 
on what gro.und you wish to find fault with her. I re- 
spect her for proving that she would not act as some 
women do, and marry for position, and wealth, and 
influence.” 

“ I believe you are mad too ! ” cried Terence irritably. 
“ Fancy refusing a position like that ! And think what 
she might have done for the family. I shall never get 
on unless I can get more influence. The Army is an 
awful place for a poor man.” 

Philip looked at him steadily. 

• Surely, Terence, you would not have ycur sister 
sell herself to a loveless marriage, in order to advance 
your prospects in life ! ” 

Terence’s patience seemed on the verge of giving 
way, but he controlled himself by an effort, and laughed 
in an uneasy way. 


D OKA'S RETURN. 


287 

“How blind you are, Phil ! Dora was head over ears 
in love with him. She had simply no right to refuse 
him.” 

“ I suppose she is the best judge of that.” 

“Girls are so stupid!” cried Terence irritably; 
“ they think nothing is good enough for them. They 
never know their own minds for two days together. 
They want to keep fellows dangling after them weeks 
and weeks, waiting for an answer. She has made a 
mistake about Forrester ; he will not give her another 
chance.” 

“ Terence, ” said Philip almost sternly, “you have 
no right to speak so of Dora ; she has given you no 
cause to say such things. She is neither vain, nor 
fickle, nor capricious. I am quite satisfied that what- 
ever she has done has been done thoughtfully and con- 
scientiously, and no one has any right to criticise her 
for it.” 

“She ought to have thought of the family,” persisted 
Terence gloomily. 

“ She ought to have done no such thing. If I thought 
any sister of mine wished to sacrifice herself in that 
way for the sake of the family, I should do everything 
in my power to prevent it. ” 

Terence laughed. 

“You are so simple-minded, Phil ; there is no mak- 
ing you see anything. Fine dresses and fine horses, 
and jewels and an establishment, are all that women 
want to make them happy. If you had lived longer in 
the world, you would know that as well as I do.” 

Philip wheeled suddenly round, and faced Terence 
with a subdued flash in his eyes which was very seldom 
seen there. 

“ Terence, how dare you say a thing like that ? You 


288 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


know it is not true. ''It is one of the cruellest and most 
unmanly slanders which your world has allowed to be- 
come fashionable, to screen its own folly and wicked- 
ness. 1 never thought to hear my brother use it. Has 
all the chivalry and reverence for womanhood, for 
motherhood and sisterhood, left the Kgremont family, 
that you, the cleverest and most favored of all its 
members, should sink so low as to insult what we 
have always held most holy ? Terence, I am ashamed 
of you.” 

Terence quailed before Philip’s words and look. He 
tried to laugh and make light of his words, but Philip 
could not get over the impression produced. 

“You to say such a thing, Terence — you, the affi- 
anced husband of Lenore ! ” 

Terence looked distinctly sheepish. 

“ How you do take a fellow up, Phil ! Of course I 
don’t mean every casual word I say to be taken au 
grand serieux. All women are not like Lenore or our 
mother and sisters. If you saw as much as I did, you 
would get some of your old fa.shioned notions of the 
perfection of woman knocked out of you.” 

“I trust not,” answered Philip gravely. “New 
fashions are not always better than old, nor new ideas 
than older ones. Men used to work and toil for their 
sisters, and not expect their sisters to push them on in 
the world by making distasteful marriages. And if it 
comes to a question of family help, I might reasonably 
ask. What have you done yourself, Terence, towards 
the general welfare ” 

“Well, Philip,” said Terence in an aggrieved way, 
“ you are not often ungenerous or unjust, but I call that 
speech both.” 

“ I cannotsee why, Terence, ” returned Philip quietly. 


DORA'^S RETURN. 


289 

“ I do not wish to be either the one or the other ; but 
you know as well as I do what your share has been in 
the work done for the family welfare. ” 

‘ ‘ How could I do anything, situated as I am ” 
asked Terence indignantly. “Who could expect it of 
a man in the Army ? What could I have done, 1 should 
like to know } Tell me that.” 

“You could have been careful and economical, and 
lived within your means, so as to leave Duffs portion 
for him. You might and should have done that, 
Terence.” 

So Terence did not get much satisfaction from Philip, 
and went away discomfited. 

On the day following, Dora returned home. That 
some change had come over her nobody could fail to 
see. Even the expression of her face had altered, and 
the old restless, discontented manner had given place 
to a quiet gentleness, serene and unobtrusive. There 
was more of sadness in her eyes than before, but yet, 
in spite of this, it was a far more happy and tranquil 
face than ever it had been in past days. And the quiet, 
contented way in which she settled down to the daily 
routine of small duties, and the willingness she evinced 
to take up new ones, and to be helpful to anyone who 
needed help, made the whole household feel glad of 
her presence amongst them, and wonder what it could 
have been that had so changed her. 

She busied herself more than ever she had done be- 
fore in ministering to the wants of the sick and poor, 
and never now complained of the emptiness or hollow- 
ness of the task. 

A cold, wet, unhealthy autumn gave her work 
enough and to spare. There was more sickness than 
had ever been known before in the place, and all who 

19 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


290 

would work had their hands more than full. Funds 
for such purposes failed to meet the demand made upon 
them, and the question arose, What was to be done 
next } 

“Mr. Forrester ought to help, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Ross to her invaluable assistant one day, as they sat 
talking of ways and means ; “ it is amongst his tenants 
that the illness is the worst, and he has money and to 
spare. I can’t get my husband to write to him and ask. 
We have heard some shocking things about him since 
he went away, and I have been so thankful you did 
not marry him after all, though it was such a disap- 
pointment at the time. But he ought to help us now, 
I am sure ; and I never did think he could be such a 
very bad man, though they say he says there is no 
God ; and I don’t know w'hat to do, Fm sure.” 

Poor little Mrs. Ross shook her head in a bewildered 
way, and looked helplessly at Dora. 

“We want money badly,” said the girl. “It is not 
pleasant to have to ask for it, but the sick and poor 
must not die or suffer needlessly because of that. 
Either you or I must write, if Mr. Ross will not. I 
would much rather you did, if you do not mind.” 

“Oh, my dear, I could not. I have never been used 
to business. I should not know what to say. You 
are so clever, and can say a thing so well. He will 
give twice as much for your asking. Do, please, 
write to him at once. His letters get to him through 
his banker, I know.” 

Dora assented quietly, and WTote the short business- 
like note without further delay. It was nearly Christ- 
mas time before the answer came, and her heart beat 
fast as she broke the seal. The letter was dated from 
an hotel in Paris. 


DORANS RETURN. 


291 

“Dear Miss Egremont, — I enclose my check for 
50/. When that is done, there will be more forthcom- 
ing, if you will let me know. I am much obliged for 
the chance given me of benefiting my own people, 
whom I may likely enough never see again, as I have 
no desire to return to Langdale. I suppose 1 shall be 
forgotten by all in a short while, yourself included. I 
am not worth remembering, even by a sister of mercy 
like yourself. Farewell. God bless you! 

“ Gordon Forrester.” 

When the check was handed over to Mrs. Ross the 
tears fairly started to her eyes. " 

“Well, to be sure I I always did say there was good 
in him. He must have a kind and generous heart. Fifty 
pounds 1 My dear, what an amount of good it will do 1 ” 

“ He says we may have more when that is done.” 

“ Well, to be sure I Ah, my dear, you see what your 
writing has done.” 

“ I do not think it was that.” 

“ I do. My dear, is it true that he was very fond of 
you — that he is staying away because you will not 
marry him .? ” 

“I do not know why he is staying away — at least, 
you know what you once said to me, Mrs. Ross, about 
marrying a man who denied God. Surely you can 
understand. ” 

Dora was somewhat agitated — her face was pale, and 
her eyes tearful. The letter of the morning had a little 
upset her. Mrs. Ross kissed her tenderly, half crying 
herself. 

“My dear,” she whispered, “we can pray to God to 
change his heart ; and when once he is God’s soldier 
and servant, what a noble man he may be I” 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

RUMORS. 

S O Christmas passed quietly away, and the early 
months of the year ; and the only news which 
reached the Egremont family from without was that of 
the ratification of the engagement between Terence and 
Lenore. 

Philip’s face might have been observed to grow a 
little more grave, and perhaps a little sad in expression, 
after this intelligence had been received ; but there was 
nobody in that household who watched him very 
closely excepting Madeline, and she was the only one 
there who spoke to him upon the subject. 

“ 1 cannot quite understand it, Philip. She certainly 
never loved him before she left us. She made a half 
promise for his sake, half against her own will. I 
never thought she would consent when it came to the 
point. ” 

“Did you not.? I did. There is something very 
lovable in Terence, with all his faults. And then his 
own love was so great. Love begets love, you know, 
Madeline, and Lenore was always full of concern for 
his welfare." 

“Yes, because she saw how much it was to you, 



RUMOHS. 


293 


Philip/’ answered Madeline quietly. “What was a 
matter of great moment to you, always became the 
same to her. ” 

Philip leaned his head on his hand and said nothing, 
whilst Madeline continued, rather sadly : - 

“Terence was very lovable once, Philip, but do you 
think he always is so now V’ 

Philip looked up quickly and uneasily. 

‘ ‘ What do you mean .? ” 

“ I hardly know myself what I mean ; but I cannot 
help feeling that Terence has changed of late. He 
sometimes seems as affectionate and well-meaning as 
in old days, but at others I have noticed a something 
in him which I hardly know how to describe, but which 
has struck me painfully, and has seemed to jar upon 
my preconceived ideas about him.” 

“ I know what you mean,” answered Philip in a low 
voice. 

“You have seen it yourself.?” 

“ I have. I believe I have tried to shut my eyes 
to it ; but that there is some change I can hardly 
doubt. It almost must be so with a man drifting, as 
Terence has done, without sail or rudder along the 
stream of life, with no definite plan of action, no steady 
principle, only vague ideals and aspirations which 
never reach fulfilment. It is a grievous thing, Made- 
line. I wonder — have I been too weak, too indulgent .? ” 

“ We have never been blind to his faults ; wealwa3^s 
knew his temperament' I do not think harsh treat- 
ment would ever have answered with Terence. Be- 
sides, he was almost a man before' our parents died. 
We had no real authority over him. We may both 
have loved him too well to have treated his faults and 
follies quite as seriously as others would have done ; 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


2Q4 

* ’ 

but, Philip, it is not a question of outward influences ; 
what Terence lacks, you and 1 know but too w’ell. He 
has never sought for it, never felt the need of it ser- 
iously, and now his character is suffering sadly from 
its absence/' 

Philip made a sign of assent. 

“‘The one thing needful,’” he said, with a sigh ; 
“how true those words are, Madeline ! I am afraid he 
has not found that.” 

Madeline shook her head and made no reply. Pres- 
ently Philip said, with more hope in his voice : 

“But Lenore’s example and influence must change 
him. He has always said so himself.” 

“I know bethinks so, and now he has persuaded 
Lenore to think so ; and she has consented at last to 
sacrifice herself to this theory, and to undertake his 
reformation at the cost of her own happiness.” 

■ Philip started. 

“ Madeline, you surely cannot think that ! ” 

“Perhaps I have said too much, more than I have 
any warrant for doing. Lenore says she is happy, and 
I am sure she means it ; but I cannot t^iink, from what 
I know of both, that he can ever make her happy. 
And, Philip, my own idea, right or wrong, is that, had 
Lenore not known how much your heart w'as bound up 
in Terence and his future, she would never have con- 
sented to engage herself to him.” 

“ Madeline,” said Philip hoarsely, “do not tempt me 
to dream again. Lenore is my brother’s promised wife ; 
let me learn to love her as a sister. I have given her 
up to him, and I trust she loves him as he loves her. 
What I have felt and thought before must be forgotten. 
It is known to none except ourselves. Do not recall it 
to my mind, for it is more than I can bear.” 


RUMORS, 


295 


Madeline said no more. She had her own suspicions 
and her own ideas about Lenore’s feelings towards 
Terence and towards Philip ; but her instincts, she 
knew, might be at fault, and she dared not say too 
much. The wish might be father to the thought, she 
felt, and Philip’s feelings were too deep to be trifled 
with. 

Days and weeks slipped by, the busy weeks of early 
spring, and Philip’s days were too fully occupied about 
his farm to leave him much time for solitary thought. 
He sometimes considered how strange it was that Ter- 
ence’s visits to the old home were now so very few and 
far between, and wondered how it was he could so sel- 
dom contrive to come over and see them ; but he heard 
no disquieting reports of his conduct, and received no 
appeals for money, so he trusted all was well, and hoped 
that Terence had developed a love for study, or was 
working harder than his wont, and so had not the same 
leisure for going about. After his visit to Scotland, he had 
been over constantly, and all his talk had been of 
Lenore, and of all his doings during his visit to Auck- 
ness ; of her perfections, and of her devotion to the 
strange, ghastly-looking woman, Mrs. Boghey. 

But now all this was changed. He hardly ever came 
to Cottesmere, and when he did, he spoke seldom or 
never of Lenore. Plis manner was preoccupied, some, 
times gloomy, sometimes gay, but with a kind of forced 
gayety not at all like his customary spontaneous flow of 
high spirits. A year ago this change would have ex- 
cited great commiseration and attention ; but Terence 
was not now the observed of all observers, as he once 
had been when his visits home were few and far be- 
tween, and he had been always overflowing with fun 
and kindly feeling for all. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


296 

Seen at close quarters, Terence had proved disappoint- 
ing. Nobody quite approved of him or his ways. 
Some were anxious, some were put out, some were in- 
clined, perhaps, to be somewhat scornful, according to 
temperament ; but with every member of the family he 
had gradually lost ground, they could hardly explain 
why. 

But there was worse to follow, and the day of awak- 
ening was not far off. 

Philip and Duff had been together to a cattle market 
some thirty miles distant, and were returning by rail in 
the dusk of the evening. There had been some races 
at one of the towns through which the train passed on 
its way to Chiveley, the nearest station to Cottesmere, 
and on the return journey the carriage in which Philip 
and Duff sat, became crowded with military men, re- 
turning to quarters after their day’s dissipation. They 
were officers of Terence’s regiment presumably, but 
none of the faces were known to Philip or Duff, who 
sat quietly in their corner, not at all disposed to join in 
the noisy talk that \vent on in the carriage. They were 
the only travellers there beside the officers, and so the 
talk went on amongst the military men without let or 
hindrance. 

The two young men took no heed at first to what 
was said, but presently they were forced to listen to a 
conversation which filled them with dismay. 

“ Where’s Egremont.^ ” said one. 

“ He’s somewhere in the train. He’ll have found a 
seat in a first-class, you may be sure. Trust Egremont 
for making himself comfortable and taking his ease.” 

He had his lady-love to look after too,” said an- 
other with a laugh, “and her comfort to study beside 
his own.” 


RUAfORS. 


297 


“ His lady-love ! ” cried another. “What, is the fair 
Lenore here ? Why wasn’t she pointed out to me ? I 
always stipulated to be introduced.” 

Duff felt Philip start, and his own hand clenched 
itself in an unconscious indignation ; but both^ were 
silent. 

A shout of laughter greeted this speech. The man 
who made it was evidently an old friend, and not a 
member of the regiment, who was well up in the gossip 
of past days, but not in that of current events. 

“Lenore!” cried another. “Why, Lenore was a 
last years flame. You never expected to find it alight 
now, surely ? ” 

“Well, I fancied it was an engagement this time. 
Besides, when I saw Kgremont in the winter, his talk 
was all of Lenore. I half thought this affair was going 
to come to something.” 

“ You couldn’t expect it to live more than six months,” 
laughed his companion. “I never understood how 
the passion for the absent Lenore managed to survive 
so long during her absence. It seemed dying a peace- 
ful and natural death at the close of the year, when sud- 
denly some unknown cause raised it into activity.” 

“Unknown cause!” repeated a dark-faced, heavy- 
browed man who had hitherto remained silent in his 
corner. “I should have thought the cause was plain 
enough for anyone to read. ” 

“What was it asked several voices. “Out with 
it, if you are so wise. Enlighten our ignorance.” 

“ Well, Egremont makes no secret of his affairs ; he 
babbles about them like a woman or a child. I should 
have thought it was all over the place by now. ” 

“ He doesn’t talk to us all as he does to you,” said 
another. 


LENORE ANNAKDALE. 


298 

“ The whole thing lies in a nutshell,” returned the 
dark man, summing up the case in a rapid way. “ He 
fell in love with this Lenore’s pretty face, as he has 
fallen in love with half a hundred before. When he 
had played through the farce of being in love, and come 
out at the other side, the whole thing W'ould have 
dropped naturally and quietly, had not that young 
Money come down on a visit to the neighborhood, fallen 
in with Egremont, and told him that his Lenore stood a 
first-rate chance of coming in for a big fortune from 
some eccentric old lady. Off starts the ardent lover to 
see how the land lies, and I suppose finds all satisfac- 
tory, for he comes back an engaged man, and" more in 
love than ever.” 

“ But I thought you said he was after somebody else 
now ! ” cried the little man who had first started ^le sub- 
ject. “ How comes that about ? ” 

“ I don't know all the ins and outs of the case; but I 
have a very good notion that his matchless Lenore has 
somehow made a mess of it, and that she is not, after 
all, to inherit this old lady’s wealth. I know Egre- 
mont was in a fine fume during some days of active cor- 
respondence, and now Lenore is never mentioned, and 
the whole thing seems to have blown over.'’ 

“ Exploded quite,” asserted another ; “and now he’s 
as good as engaged to that Hinkston girl.” 

“ Hinkston !” cried the little man quickly, “you 
don’t mean to say he’s taken up with that Hinkston’s 
daughter ? ” 

“ He has a pot of money, you know,” was the reply, 
“ and it will all come to her, and she is handsome and 
has a taking way with her. They have been playing 
for Egremont ever since he came here, fishing and 
running after him and doing all they could. Anything 


J^UMORS. 


299 


to get a man with a name and a family, even if he 
hadn’t a penny, to raise themselves from their very 
low place in the social scale. They have been at him 
all this year, and now I believe they have hooked him.” 

“ Well, I did think Egremont had better taste than to 
take up with Hinkston’s daughter,” said the little man. 
“Why, he’s a regular old swindler, and nobody re- 
spectable will know him.” 

“ Egremont’s such a fool, anyone can lead him by the 
nose who only flatters him enough. The girl has been 
dangling after him this ever so long, and now that he’s 
been getting into debt again, with betting, and the old 
man has lent him money again and again, I don’t see 
how ever he is to get out of the mess. He will have to 
marry her now, nolens voleiis,'' 

The train at this moment steamed into Chiveley, and 
the officers descended quickly to the platform and van- 
ished. Philip and Duff got out more slowly, and saw 
in front of them Terence, walking from the station 
with a showily-dressed girl upon his arm. The two 
got into a carriage that was waiting, and drove rapidly 
away. 

As Philip mounted the dog-cart, Duff noticed that his 
face was pale and set, as though he had been greatly 
moved. No word was exchanged between them for a 
while, and at last Philip said : 

“ Perhaps it is not true.” 

“ We had better find that out,” said Duff. 

“I wish you would. Duff. I do not feel as though 
I could.” 

“ All right ; I will.” 

“To hear Lenore’s name bandied about between 
those men,” said Philip between his shut teeth, “and to 
think that Terence allows it ” 


300 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


“If he were anybody but my brother,” remarked 
Dutf coolly, “1 should horsewhip him in the presence 
of his precious companions till he yelled for mercy, and 
Tm not sure that I shan’t do it as it is ! ” 





CHAPTER XXIX. 

A GLAD SURPRISE. 

P hilip and Duff kept their own counsel, and not a 
word did any of the sisters hear on the subject of 
Terence, and what had been learnt respecting his affairs. 

He did not come near Cottesmere all that week, and 
Duff was too busy to make the intended inquiries until 
some little time had elapsed ; but on the first day that 
he could be spared he went over to Chiveley, to try and 
verify or disprove the rumors that had reached them. 

Philip was left alone at the farm that day. His sisters 
had all gone into a neighboring town for some needful 
spring shopping. It was a hot, still day in May. The 
cuckoo was calling softly through the clear, sunny air ; 
the lights and shadows chased each other over the green 
fields. It was the kind of day to make simple existence 
a matter of delight and thankfulness, whilst the whole 
world seemed a paradise too beautiful for any taint of 
sin. 

At noon, when the laborers were gathered together 
under the hedges, Philip wandered slowly back towards 
the house, his mind engrossed in somewhat sorrowful 
thought. 




LENORE ANNANDALE. 


302 

He had unlatched the gate at the bottom of the lawn, 
and was walking up the smooth, green slope, when 
suddenly out of the house bounded a young, strong 
collie dog, who greeted him with wild exuberance 
of joy, and riiced round him in a perfect rapture 
of delight 

Philip stopped short in his walk, and his heart gave 
one bound, and then seemed to stand still. 

‘ ‘ Col ! ” he said. ‘ ‘ Col, is it you come back > How 
did you get here } Where is Lenore ? ” 

As if in answer to his question, there appeared stand- 
ing in one of the long windows of the drawing-room a 
slight, girlish figure, dressed all in black. 

“Lenore!" he cried, advancing with swift, long 
strides. 

“Philip 1 " she said in a low tone, and held out both 
hands, whilst her face, which was very pale, quivered 
as with hardly repressed tears. 

Pie took her hands in his and held them closely. 
He did not speak again, only stood beside her quite 
still and silent, holding her hands in a warm, strong 
clasp, and gating down upon the upturned face with 
eyes that spoke more eloquently than words could do. 
It was several minutes before that silence was broken. 

“ Oh, Philip I " said Lenore at last, “it is so good to 
be at home. ” 

Then her voice broke suddenly, and she quickly with- 
drew her hand to dash away the unbidden tears that 
had started to her eyes. 

Philip saw she was unnerved — unlike her calm, 
serene self; and he knew something had come to trouble 
her. He led her to a couch which stood in a cool, 
shady part of the room, and sat down beside her, assum- 
ing the elder brother’s air of authority, which he was 


wont, in his gentle, manly fashion, to exercise over all 
the household. 

“ Tell me, Lenore, what does all this mean ? When 
did you come ? ” 

“Just now ; I have only just come. I reached Lon- 
don this morning and came straight on. I have been 
travelling all night.” 

“Poor child! No wonder you look so white and 
tired. But what made you hurry so ? What is it has 
brought you here so suddenly ? ” 

“I couldn’t stay. It was so dreadful. I had to go 
straight out.” 

“Why.? Has Mrs. Boghey been unkind to you, 
Lenore ? ” 

She looked at him quickly. 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Boghey is dead. ” 

‘ ‘ Dead I ” 

“ Yes ; did you not have my letter ? ” 

“ We have had no letter for a week or more.” 

Lenore pressed her hand to her head. 

“ I suppose I have come quicker than it did. I sup- 
pose it is on its way now. I wrote yesterday before I 
knew that I should have to go. I knew I might come 
home, Philip, without writing to ask leave.” 

He bent over hqr and touched her forehead with his 
lips. 

“So long as I am master here, Lenore, this house 
will always be a home for you, whenever you will let it 
be. ” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, Philip. I think it will always seem like 
home to me here.” 

She leaned upon his shoulder a little as they sat close 
together, in the unconscious fashion of a tired child. 
She heaved a great sigh of relief. 


304 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“ It is SO good to be at home, Philip,” she said again, 
after a pause. 

“It is good to see you back, Lenore. This has 
seemed a long year without you.” 

“It has seemed long U) me too.” 

“ And you have not told me anything about yourself 
yet, Lenore. What is it has happened } When did 
Mrs. Boghey die ? ” 

Lenore put her hand up again to her head. 

“ Let me think, it seems so long ago. Last night I 
was travelling — it was the night before that, at two in 
the morning.*’ 

“ And were you with her? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I had been with her all the time she had 
been ill." 

‘ ‘ Was she ill long ? " 

“No, only a few days at the last, though she had 
been growing weaker and more weak for a long while." 

“What did she die of? " 

“ Heart disease, they called it. I believe it was a 
broken heart. Oh, Philip, she had suffered so terribly 
and so long ! Some day, perhaps, I will tell you the 
story ; I could not now. But it was such peace at the 
last — such perfect peace. " 

“Yes ? " he questioned quietly and sympathetically, 
feeling that it would ease her heart better to talk of 
what was so much in her thoughts, than to keep it all 
shut up in silence. 

“ It was like one of our sunsets, Philip, after a day 
of rain, or a calm at sea after storm ; it was all so 
bright and calm and peaceful — the clear shining after 
rain. " 

Lenore’s voice shook a little. Philip took up the 
word and continued : 


A GLAD SURPRISE. 


305 

‘ At evening time it shall be light/ It is a beauti- 
ful promise, Lenore, and is so often granted to those 
whose lives have been full of darkness and trouble. I 
have noticed that so many times/’ 

“ The everlasting arms were under her, Philip,’' said 
the girl with a little sob in her voice, “and she knew 
it. She was perfectly peaceful and happy. She had 
talked a little to us earlier in the night, spoken such 
loving, beautiful words, and bidden us good-bye. 
Campbell and I were with her then — nobody else. 
I'hen she sank into a kind of sleep, and we never 
thought she would wake again. But then at last, just 
when we thought her breath had almost ceased, she 
opened her eyes and looked at me. ‘The everlasting 
arms are folding very closely rohnd me, Lenore,’ she 
said very gently and quietly. ‘ The eternal God is my 
refuge. He will not fail me now. God bless you, my 
child. May the eternal arms be under you, as they are 
under me, now and always ! ' And then she looked up 
with a curious expression, as though she saw something 
strange and wonderful, and she smiled, and then she 
shut her eyes slowly, and we saw that she was dead." 

They sat together in silence for a while — the restful 
silence of perfect sympathy and entire mutual under- 
standing. Neither cared to break that silence for a 
long while. 

“Lenore,” said Philip at last, “I must not forget 
that you are a traveller and have journeyed far. We 
must dine together to-day alone, for there is nobody 
else at home.” 

“ I know ; Lucy told me so when I came. I think 
I was glad, for I felt bewildered, and I knew it would 
rest me to have a quiet time with you first. The house 
looks so natural, Philip, so unchanged. I went up to 

20 


LENORE ANNAE'DALE. 


306 

my room, and could hardly believe I had ever left it. 
It does feel so good to be at home again at last.” 

Ihey sat down together in the long, cool, shady' 
dining-room to their mid-day repast. The green 
branches and half-blown buds of the climbing roses 
peeped in through the open lattice, and the sweet scents 
irom the spring flowers without stole in with the warm, 
sweet breeze of early summer. 

“You have not told me yet, Lenore, what made you 
leave Auckness so suddenly.” 

Lenore could talk calmly and quietly now. Food 
and rest and the comfort of Philip’s presence had pro- 
duced their effect, and she no longer felt unequal to the 
task of telling her tale. 

‘ ‘ Let us go into the garden if you have finished, 
Philip ; I will tell you all about it there. It is so lovely 
out of doors.” 

They found a cool, shady spot, an old retreat of theirs 
in the orchard, where many confidences in past days 
had been given and received ; and whilst Col and 
Tweedie played a wild game of delighted recognition 
amid the growing grass and clover, Philip and Lenore 
settled themselves in the gnarled, twisted limbs of an 
old apple tree, and the girl began her tale. 

“ Mrs. Boghey died in the night, as I told you, and 
we sent off at once to Inverbervie, where the Moneys 
live, to let them know, for they are the only relatives 
she has.” 

“You do not like them much, I think.” 

“Not much ; and less than ever now. They did pro- 
fess to be fond of her so long as she was alive ; but I 
am sure it could only have been a pretence, or they 
never could have behaved as they did yesterday.” 

“What did they do .? ” 


A GLAD SDRPRISE. 


307 

“ They all came over quite early, and from the first 
it was plain that all they cared for was to find out how 
the property had been willed.” 

“ Was the will there.? ” 

“No; Mrs. Bogheys lawyer had it, and he could 
not be at Auckness till late in the evening ; but 1 could 
tell them what they wanted to know.” 

“ You knew what had been done .? ” 

“ Yes ; Mrs. Boghey used to talk a good deal to me 
about her affairs. She is very generous, Philip ; she 
has left me five thousand pounds.” 

‘ ‘ I am glad, Lenore. Does the rest of the property 
go to the Moneys .? ” 

“ Yes. There are legacies to the servants, and an 
annuity to be purchased for Campbell, and a few 
thousands to different charities ; but all the bulk of the 
property goes to the Moneys.” 

“ Were they glad to hear that .? ” 

“Yes, horribly glad — it was quite dreadful to sea 
them gloating over everything in the place, and esti- 
mating its value, and Mrs. Boghey lying dead upstairs, 
and not a word or a thought for her, or a question as 
to her death. ” 

“ How did they treat you .? ” 

“Very well at first, almost deferentially, fori think 
they had a sort of fear that I had, or might have, come 
between them and their inheritance ; but when they 
found out from me how matters really stood, all that 
departed at once. I think they were very angry at the 
large legacy left to me, for they talked in a very horrid 
way, and I’m sure it was at me. At last I felt I could 
bear it no longer — it was so dreadful to see them tak- 
ing possession and turning over all Mrs. Boghey’s 
things, and planning how to sell them to the best ad- 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


308 

vantage. I had been mistress there all the time Mrs. 
Boghey had been ill, and had taken the management of 
everything, and now I was not allowed to say a word, 
and was treated almost like a servant. The whole 
place was unendurable, and there was no longer any 
reason for me to stay. I knew you would let me come 
home without warning, so I packed up my things 
yesterday afternoon, and came straight off in the cart 
the servants use for the station work. Mrs. Money 
told me it was impossible to give me the use of the car- 
riage — not that it was wanted for anything else, as the 
coachman indignantly told me.'" 

Philip frowned heavily. 

“I am glad you came home, Lenore. I could not 
bear to have you treated so. What a woman she must 
be! And, by-the-by,” he added reflectively, “I wonder 
that Mrs. Boghey left them her property if she liked 
them so little.'’ 

“ They were her only relatives, you see." 

People do not always leave their money to the 
next-of-kin." 

“ I think they should do," answered Lenore in a low 
voice, “unless there is a very strong reason against it." 

Something in her manner made Philip ask with a 
smile. 

“Did you tell that to Mrs. Boghey, Lenore.? ” 

“Yes," she answered frankly. 

“Might you have had more money left you if you 
had wished it .? " 

“ I believe so.’’ 

“And you declined.?" 

“ Yes ; I had no claim. I think it would have been 
unjust to others." 

‘ ‘ Was that all .? ’’ 


A GLAD SURPRISE. 


309 


Lenore hesitated a moment, and then added : 

“I do not think wealth would be good for Terence. 

I am almost sure it would make him idle and extrava- 
gant. I have heard you say sometimes, Philip, that 
you thought a rich wife would be enough to ruin Ter- 
ence.’" 

“And you sacrificed yourself for him, Lenore 

“No, ’’she answered quickly, “it was no sacrifice, 
for I do not want riches for myself. I should have 
liked to do more for you and the rest ; but I can still 
keep Hector at school with my legacy, and things are 
doing better upon the farm, you say. Wealth has very 
great responsibilities, Philip, and Terence might not 
have felt as I should do about it.” 

Philip was silent. 

“ How is Terence ? ” asked the girl presently. 

“Well, I believe ; but he has not been here for some 
little while. ” 

have not heard very often lately. I suppose he 
is very busy } ” 

“ I hope so.” 

Lenore hesitated, and then said quietly : 

“I’m afraid he was rather vexed about what I said 
to Mrs. Boghey. I told him a good deal of what passed, 
and he said I had acted foolishly, more like a child than 
a woman. He did not seem angry exactly, but he has 
not written so often since. When he came to see me, 
he was so good and loving, Philip. He was so genne 
and thoughtful, so different from what he once was. 
Have 3'^ou not noticed the change.?” 

“I hope he is changed ; I have not seen him veiy 
often of late,” said Philip evasively. 

He felt it impossible to speak to Lenore of Terence. 
He believed she loved him tenderly and sincerely, even 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


3to 

if the absorbing, passionate element of love was want- 
ing in her case. How could he talk of their engage- 
ment, suspecting, as he could not but do, that Terence 
was playing a double game, and was entangling him- 
self with some unknown woman, whilst still holding 
Lenore bound to him by the betrothal vow — almost as 
sacred in Philip’s eyes as that of marriage itself? 

He could not speak of his brother, and Lenore soon 
turned to other subjects, and was eager to hear all he 
could tell of the home-life during the year that had 
passed. 

Sitting there in the cool orchard, or wandering to- 
gether in the shady shrubbery paths, the hours fled 
swiftly by for Philip and Lenore. The girl had come 
home wearied out in body and mind, and sorrowful to 
her heart’s core, and already she found herself refreshed 
and cheered, and full of a calm and sweet happiness 
she did not herself understand. 

Neither of the two were impatient for the return of 
the absent ones, but they came at last, and very joyful 
and loving was the greeting Lenore received from one 
and all. 

Whilst the glad welcomes were being exchanged upon 
the lawn, Philip saw that Duff was driving round to 
the yard in the dog-cart, having just returned from 
Chiveley. 

Quietly separating himself from the group in front of 
the house, Philip walked round to the yard and met 
his brother leaving it 



CHAPTER XXX. 


TERENCE AT BAY. 


OME into the orchard, Duff. Keep away from 



the house for a while. Tell me, what have 
you found out ? Have you got to the bottom of the 
mystery ? ” 

Duff shook his head. 

‘‘Things look as ugly as possible, but I have not 
been able to prove anything so far. ” 

“ Haven’t you seen Terence ” 

“No ; he was away. He had gone with Miss Hink- 
ston somewhere, and would not be back till night. 
Everyone believes they are engaged. ” . 

Philip’s face grew pained and anxious. 

“ How can he behave so? — he, engaged to Lenore. 
I never thought Terence could act dishonorably where 
he loved.” 

Duff shrugged his shoulders. 

“To my thinking, it has never yet appeared that 
Terence ever has loved anybody but himself.” 

Philip made no answer. A few months ago he 
would almost have resented such a speech ; now he 
could not, for he felt its justice. 

“lam afraid,” continued Duff, looking away and 



312 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


switching at the tall grass with his cane, “ I am afraid 
Terence has been behaving very badly all round — 
worse than ever.” 

“ What do you mean } ” 

“By all accounts he is more extravagant than ever. 
He gambles, and is in a regular set of betting and 
drinking fellows. He is always getting into trouble at 
headquarters and being called over the coals by his 
superior officer. They say he will have to send in his 
papers if he goes on in this reckless way much longer. 
He is just ruining his prospects in the army. His ex- 
penditure must be double his income at least. He 
keeps a dog-cart now, and has a splendid horse, they 
say, that he gave a hundred guineas for. He had- 
taken Miss Hinkston over to some races in it to-day. 
He does not seem now to care about keeping up even 
an appearance of decency. ” 

Philip’s face was very grave. 

“He is in debt again then, of course, andheavily.- 
Whatever will become of him ? ” 

“ No, he is not in debt — that is the ugliest part of it, ” 
answered Duff significantly, “at least, not to the 
tradespeople. Everyone of them is now eager to serve 
Captain Egremont. He is looked upon as a million- 
aire, and has always plenty of ready money.” 

The brothers did not look at one another. 7’he shame 
that Terence never felt himself seemed to have fastened 
itself upon them. 

“ Where does the money come from .? ” said Philip at 
last in a low voice. 

“From old Hinkston. He is rolling in wealth. It is 
the price paid by him for Terences attentions to his 
daughter. His affection, it seems, is a marketable 
commodity put up to the highest bidder.” 


TERENCE AT BAY. 


315 


“ It cannot be, Duff, it cannot be ! ” cried Philip, with 
Budden pain and indignation struggling for mastery in 
his voice. “ Terence cannot have sunk so low as that. 
It cannot be true ! ” 

•“ I am afraid it is only too true. I have not shared 
the family enthusiasm for Terence, as you know. 
Probably I was envious of his more brilliant person and 
his more ambitious career. Sometimes you have told 
me I have been needlessly distrustful and hard upon 
him. It may have been so, perhaps. I have not liked 
Terence particularly, yet I would give worlds to distrust 
what has been forced into my notice to-day.” 

‘ ‘ We must see him. Duff. He may be able to explain 
something of all this. Appearances are against him, 
but things may not be so bad as they look. We must 
see him face to face, and hear what he has to say for 
himself. ” 

Exactly ; that is what I felt. I left a note for him 
saying that it was absolutely necessary for us to see 
him, and that he must come over here to-morrow after- 
noon. I believe he will do so. My message was 
urgent, and I do not think he will fail to come.” 

Philip paused and looked at Duff with an expression 
of perplexity. 

“ Terence here to-morrow ?” he said. “We must be 
very careful. Do you know. Duff, that Lenore has 
come back .? ” 

“ Lenore come back.? ” 

“Yes; Mrs. Boghey is dead. She died two nights 
ago. Lenore has come straight back to us. She must 
not meet Terence till we have seen how matters stand 
with him. She shall not be trifled with in this way any 
longer.” 

Philip's face was gra,Y§ a^nd stern. Duff stood with 


3^4 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


his hands in his pockets, and uttered a low whistle of 
surprise and perplexity. 

“A nice state of affairs, certainly — one's brother en- 
gaged to two women at once ! 

“ We do not know that he is engaged in any way to 
Miss H inks ton.” 

Duff nodded his head slowly and significantly. 

“Old Hinkston is no fool, and you may be sure he 
knows the game he’s playing. It would take a cleverer 
man than Terence to get the best of it with him.” 

Philip’s face was full of care. 

“ What will Lenore say } what will she think .? One 
trouble on another, and then treachery from him whom 
she has so loved and trusted ” 

“ Strikes me,” interposed Duff coolly, “that Lenore 
will never break her heart over Terence.” 

“She is his promised wife. Duff,” said Philip gravely, 
“and therefore I am sure that she loves him truly.’’ 

Duff turned away with a half smile. 

“■ For your sake she promised,” he muttered, “all for 
your sake. You have been so wrapped up in Terence, 
and she in you. I sometimes think you are both quite 
blind ; but things seem coming right now — no thanks 
to you, though.” 

Lenore was tired out by her day of anxiety and her 
night’s, travelling. She went early to bed, and the 
next day a severe headache and sudden prostration of 
strength confined her to her room, and quite prevented 
any danger of an accidental meeting with Terence. 

This attack of illness, as it was not of a character to 
cause anxiety, was something of a relief to Philip and 
Duff, as it gave them a sense of security against any 
surprises ; for both felt that if Terence first met Lenore, 
more mischief might be done by his smooth, plausible 


TERENCE AT BAY. 


3^5 

tongue than could be undone by their practical common 
sense. 

Terence did not disappoint them ; but he did not 
drive over in his dog-cart, even though the day 'wms hot 
enough to make walking fatiguing. He had come 
over on his own feet, and was met by Philip and Duff in 
the meadow down by the Mere, where he had, a year 
ago, held a memorable conversation with Lenore. 

“Why, Phil, old fellow, I am glad to see you again ! ” 
was Terence’s greeting, spoken with all his customary 
genial warmth. “Duff here too ? I was awfully sorry 
to miss you yesterday. It was no end of a nuisance to 
have to go to those stupid races, and I felt savage when 
I got back and found you had been. I wish you had 
given me notice, and I would have stayed for you. ” 

He spoke in an off-hand, easy way, and yet he did 
not appear quite so unembarrassed as he wished his 
brothers to imagine. His eyes did not meet theirs 
readily, and he talked on in a rapid and purposeless 
fashion, as if to leave them no opportunity for asking 
questions, or stating what their object was in seeking 
him out. 

The brothers strayed slowly into the cool shade of 
the trees which bordered the Mere ; and at length even 
Terence’s flow of words exhausted itself, and silence 
fell between them. 

“ Terence,” said Philip, “ we wanted to see you, as 
you know, and the sooner we understand each othei 
the better. Have you anything to tell us about your- 
self and your prospects ? We would much rather hear 
whatever there is to hear, from yourself than from 
strangers. ” 

A deep flush spread slowly over Terence’s face ; but 
he laughed in a forced, unnatural way. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


316 

“ What is the good of being so confoundedly mys- 
terious, Philip ? Why can’t you say out what you 
mean ? I’m not a baby, that I am expected to come 
prattling here with every little tale of what I say and 
do, nor am I a woman, who wishes to make a father 
confessor of you. You arrogate too much to yourself. 
What right have you to call upon me to answer to you 
for my doings } ” 

The tone and the words both hurt Philip. Was this 
his reward for years of forbearance and affection ? 
Duff was indignant and scornful, and as Philip lapsed 
into silence, he took up the cudgels and turned ques- 
tioner, though his manner was so cool and impassive 
that it would not be easy to suppose how much he was 
interested in the subject. 

“Well, if you wish to be asked questions, there is 
no difficulty in finding plenty to ask. In the first place, 
who is this Miss Hinkston, in whose company you 
went to the races yesterday ? ” 

Terence’s face changed slightly, and a guarded look 
took the place of the forced expression of ease. 

“ Miss Hinkston.? Oh, she’s a girl I know — at least, 

I know her father very well, and he has invited me 
several times to his house. There’s nothing special to 
know about them.” 

“ I hear they are a very low family,” said Duff. “ I 
wonder that you care to associate so much with them. ” 

Terence laughed uneasily. 

“ Who says I do have much to do with them ? ” 

“ A great many people say so. Besides, we saw you 
with her returning from some races last Wednesday 
week, and yesterday you were her only companion on 
the race-course. Do you consider your conduct is 
likely to escape observation ? As you do not seem 


TERENCE AT BAY, 


317 


ashamed of your acquaintance, perhaps you can explain 
your object in hobnobbing with such very low sort of 
people. 1 should not have thought it of you at all.” 

“ I do not consider myself responsible to you for my 
conduct ! ” said Terence haughtily, a dark flush spread- 
ing again over brow and cheek. “ I suppose I am 
able by this time to choose my own friends ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, yes, and your own horses too, and pay 
a hundred guineas for them, and drive all over the 
place with your lady friends. Of course you are per- 
fectly at liberty to do all that ; only it is interesting to 
your family to know a little about your remarkable 
prosperity.” 

Terence was pale now with passion, and would have 
made a fierce retort, had not Philip interposed : 

“ Do not get angry, Terence. Duff, what is the use 
of talking in that way .? There are one or two things 
we must know ; but that is not the way to get at the 
truth. Terence, tell me truly, are you engaged to Miss 
Hinkston ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Are you entangled in any way } Do you suppose 
that she believes your affections are hers.? Are you 
acting fairly towards her ? ” 

“ Yes, I am.” Terence spoke rapidly and hoarsely. 
“ She has nothing to complain of. I can’t tell what 
she thinks, and I don’t care.” 

“ You are sure there is no bond between you ? ” 

“ I am not engaged, and I never shall be,” answered 
Terence, still looking like a hunted animal brought to 
bay, seeming hardly to know how to get out his words. 
“ Surely that will satisfy you.” 

“ I don’t know — you look so unnatural, Terence. 
Why cannot you be open with us and tell us all ? We 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


31S 

have never given you cause to distrust us. If you are 
in any trouble, we will help you if it is possible." 

“ You cannot — I mean, there is no need — I am in no 
trouble. I am much obliged, but really I stand in no 
need of sympathy or assistance. I feel at a loss to 
know from whence springs all this solicitude for my 
welfare." 

Duff looked scornful, and seemed about to retort ; 
but Philip interposed by saying quietly : 

“ We had heard so much about you and Miss 
Hinkston that we could not but entertain some unwill- 
ing suspicions about you. As, however, you deny this 
alleged engagement, there is no more to be said upon 
the matter. You had better come up to the house. 
Lenore came home suddenly yesterday. It will be a 
great pleasure to her to see you again. You had better 
spend what time you have with her. There will be so 
much to discuss between you." 

Philip spoke with his usual simple straight-forward- 
ness ; he had not expected to produce any great effect 
by his words, and was startled to see Terence fling up 
his hands as though he had been shot, whilst he 
exclaimed hoarsely : 

“ Lenore here ! " 

“Yes. Mrs. Boghey is dead. I believe she left her 
five thousand pounds. You will be able to talk of 
getting married now. Terence, what is the matter } " 

“ Let me go. Don't talk to me. I will never see 
Lenore again ! Good heavens, Philip ! how can I tell 
you ? I am a married man already, and a most miser- 
able one too ! " 

A dead silence followed this sudden announcement. 
Not in their worst moments of anxiety had either 
brother imagined anything so bad as this. 


TERENCE AT BAY. 


319 


“Married, Terence ! " 

“Yes, married to Julia Hinkston that was — trapped 
into marriage by that swindling, money-lending father 
of hers. 1 have been married three months and more, 
and a happy, happy life I have led ! " 

“Terence ! ” ejaculated Philip again ; but Duff inter- 
posed a quiet question : 

“Tell us all about it, Terence." 

“ There is little to tell. I was a fool— I have been a 
fool all my life. Hinkston made up to me, invited me, 
lent me money, and so forth. Julia flattered me — she 
is handsome in a way, and not so underbred as he., 
One got me deeper and deeper into debt, and the other 
led me on more and more with her arts and fascina- 
tions. I hardly know how it did end. I suppose I had 
made a few silly speeches, for the next day old Hinkston 
called to ‘ ask my intentions.’ I had none, of course ; 
whereat he vowed his child’s affections should not be 
trifled with, and finally threatened me with ruin if I 
drew back from what he called my word. I was weak 
and foolish, as usual, and got out of it as best I could, 
but found I was then considered engaged. It was a 
hopeless struggle — ruin on the one hand, and no chance 
of ever marrying Lenore ; wealth, and freedom from 
debt on the other. I made my choice almost under 
compulsion. We were married privately, and have 
kept the matter a secret — that was my stipulation. I had 
my I.O.U. ’s and a check for 5000/. for a wedding 
present. Julia has about 5000/. a year, and any amount 
in prospect. I am a rich man now, and must be con- 
gratulated as such. Now that the disgraceful secret is 
out, I shall leave the Army and settle down in blissful 
conjugal repose. I have been putting off that happy 
day as long as possible. Now it has come. You shall 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


320 

not however be troubled with Mrs. Terence Egremont’s 
acquaintance. 

Philip and Duff listened in dead silence. Then the 
former said softly : 

‘ ‘ And Lenore ? " 

“ Lenore knows nothing. She believes herself en- 
gaged to me.” 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

DUFF S DIPLOMACY. 


G reat consternation and bitter, sorrow prevailed 
that evening at Cottesmere Farm. 

Terence had gone, humbled to the dust, unwilling to 
meet his family, now that the shameful story of his 
deceitful conduct and his wretched marriage could no 
longer be witheld from them. 

Neither Philip nor Duff had reproached him. Even 
his treachery and baseness towards Lenore, which had 
roused in them deep feelings of indignation and scorn, 
pa.ssed unreproved and unremarked upon. Both 
brothers saw but too plainly how bitterly he was 
rebelling against the fate which his own weakness and 
folly and reckless following after pleasure had brought 
upon him, and they refrained from adding to his misery 
by any useless recriminations. He had “sown his 
wild oats” indeed with no sparing hand, and now he 
was reaping an abundant harvest in the misery of a 
blighted life and ruined prospects. 

They had let him depart in silence and shame, not 
knowing how to comfort him, unwilling to reproach 
him ; and then they had been obliged to break to the 
family the shameful story they had heard. 

21 



LENORE ANNANDALE. 


322 

The dismay and consternation of all may be briefly 
passed over. A thunderbolt falling- in their midst would 
have produced a far smaller sensation ; and amid the 
general sorrow and shame the same thought was upper- 
most in each mind — Who shall tell Lenore.? and it 
seemed as if nobody felt equal to this task. Madeline’s 
words on the subject seemed to sum up the universal 
feeling : 

Somebody must tell her, but I can’t.” 

“ Well,” said Duff at last, “ I suppose it is because I 
am particularly hard-hearted, but I don’t feel the smallest 
compunction in taking upon myself the office of break- 
ing this piece of news to Lenore. If she is well enough 
to come down to-morrow, I will tell her. It won’t 
harrow up my feelings as it does yours. If you like to 
leave the matter in my hands, I will undertake it.” 

They looked at him in surprise, but were glad enough 
to take him at his word. Lenore was fond of Duff, and 
seemed to understand him better than they, his own 
sisters, did. Perhaps, in his cool, matter-of-fact way 
he would perform the task better than they could do in 
their grief and sympathy. At any rate, they were all 
glad to shift the unwelcome office upon his broad 
shoulders. 

Lenore was much better on the following day. Sleep 
had done its marvellous work and had restored her 
exhausted powers. She still felt a little tired and weak, 
but that was all. She was able to come downstairs and 
to wander again around the well-loved garden, visiting 
her favorite nooks and corners, and renewing old 
friendships, with objects animate and inanimate, 

Lenore was very happy, calmly and quietly content. 
She did not try to analyj^e her happiness, but accepted 
it in a quiet, restful spirit, which helped more than any- 


DUFFYS DIPLOMACY. 


323 


thing to restore her wearied mind to its customary calm ; 
and if she, was conscious that this utter repose could not 
last — that sooner or later cares and anxiety would come 
again, and she would be obliged to face the battles 
and the perplexities of life — this consciousness did not 
trouble her, because she knew that help and strength 
would not be withheld when they were needed. 

Evening was drawing on, and Lenore was sitting 
alone in a shady, sheltered nook with Col at her feet, 
when she saw Duff approaching, and smiled a ready 
welcome. 

“Well, Lenore? Better?” 

“Much better, thank you. Have you been very 
busy ? ” 

“Not specially so. I have done now. I thought I 
saw you here. By-the-by, I have a piece of news for 
you. ” 

“ Have you? What kind of news ? — good or bad? ” 

“ Well, I should say good, as far as you’re concerned, 
but I find my family differ from me upon the point.” 

Lenore smiled a little. 

“You talk in riddles. Duff. Let me hear this piece 
of news, and judge for myself its effect.” 

She laughed as she spoke lightly and playfully. Drff 
looked at her with a subdued humorous twinkle in his 
eye. He felt sure of his own theory, and did not fear 
the situation. 

“ It will be a great surprise, Lenore.” 

“Will it ? You make me curious.” 

“A great shock perhaps — at least, so they tell me.” 

“This is mysterious. Do explain youself Why 
were you deputed to make the revelation ? ” 

“ Nobody else liked to.” 

Lenore looked up quickly. 


324 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


*‘Tell me, Duff,” she said. 

“ Terence is married.” 

She sat still a full minute, looking straight out before 
her. It was not easy to read the expression of her face, 
yet Duff, as he watched her under his eyelids, felt con- 
vinced that there was no grief, no sense of personal 
loss, weighing upon her mind. 

“ Why did he not tell me himself ? ” 

“Because he is a coward,” answered Duff with cool 
contempt. 

“ When was he married ? ” 

“He has been married three months.” 

Lenore raised her eyes slowly to Duff’s, and he saw 
in them a kindling glow of indignation. Slowly she 
drew from her pocket a letter. 

“He wrote to me a fortnight ago, as to his promised 
wife. Duff, how could he ? Philip’s brother ! ” She 
tore the letter across and flung it from her. 

“Whom has he married ? ” 

“The daughter of some low-bred, rascally Jew 
money-lender. It has been a piece of trickery from first 
to last, and Terence’s own cowardly weakness lost him 
his one chance. We might have saved him, if he had 
told us. His own folly has ruined him.” 

“Then he married for money ? ” 

“He sold himself ; that is the literal statement of the 
fact.” 

Len ore’s face was very grave. 

“If I had not declined Mrs. Boghey’s fortune, he 
would not have done it.” 

“Possibly not; he would have sold himself to the 
highest bidder, and claimed you and your fortune. 
You have had a narrow escape, Lenore, of a most mis- 
erable life.” 


DUFFYS DIPLOMACY, 


325 


“I have,” she answered, clasping her hands and 
looking dreamily before her; “I have indeed. Oh, 
who could have thought it Philip s brother ! ” 

“Exactly, Lenore,” returned Duff quietly. “It has 
always seemed to me that it was to Philip's brother you 
engaged yourself, not to Terence Egremont.” 

“And if I did,” answered Lenore still dreamily, 
“was there anything so strange in it? You know 
Philip, you know what he is. You know, we all know, 
how dear Terence’s welfare was to him. He thought 
I could help him so much, and Terence said the same. 
Was it wrong to be willing to try ? Could I have refused 
a trust like that ? ” 

“I think you were most generous, Lenore, but I 
think you were wrong,” said Duff. 

She started from her reverie, and looked quickly up 
at him. 

“ I don’t know why I am saying all this to you, Duff. 
I think you have taken me unawares.” 

“ You have not told me anything yet, that I did not 
pretty well know already.” 

She looked at him earnestly, and passed her hand 
across her eyes. 

“You think I have acted wrongly, Duff? I begin to 
think the same myself, but I don’t feel as though I saw 
anything clearly yet. Will you tell me what was wrong ? ” 

“ I think it was wrong — a mistake, perhaps, is a better 
word — to engage yourself to Terence, whilst all the 
while you cared for Philip.” 

“I did it for his sake,” she said simply. 

“I know you did. You were generous, you were 
devoted ; but your generosity and devotion nearly made 
havoc of the happiness of two lives — your own and 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


326 

Philip’s. Of yourself, 1 know, you do not think, but I 
do wonder at your not considering him.” 

Lenore’s eyes were wide open now, full of a kind of 
startled bewilderment. 

“I thought he so wished it. Terence said so, and 
then — and then 1 said I would.” 

‘ ‘ Exactly. Y ou and Philip would both have sacrificed 
your several happinesses in life for Terence’s sake ; but 
did you never see, Lenore, what a terrible sacrifice it 
was to him ? ” 

The girl's eyes were hidden now under their long 
lashes ; her voice quivered a little as she asked : 

“ What do you mean. Duff ? ” 

“ Mean .? ” echoed Duff in his blunt fashion. “Well, 
I don’t know if I have any business to say what I 
mean ; but really one feels inclined to speak one’s mind 
plainly. Don’t you know, can’t you see that Philip 
never cared for anybody in the world but you } — and, 
what is more, I don’t believe you care for anybody but 
him.” 

After this surprising speech there was a dead silence, 
which lasted many long minutes. Duff stood peeling 
the bark from the tree against which he leaned, as if 
utterly engrossed in the task, and Lenore sat perfectly 
still, her hands clasped upon her knee, feeling dazzled 
and bewildered, as if a flood of golden sunlight had sud- 
denly been let into a hitherto dark and unexplored 
recess of her heart. 

It seemed a long while before anyone spoke, and then 
it was Lenore who broke the silence. 

“ Duff, why do you say all this to me ? ” 

“ Because I think it is time you should know, and I 
don’t know who else will tell you.” 

“ I don’t quite understand.” 


DUFFYS DIPLOMACY. 


327 

“Well, look here, it's just this : you’re not the only 
person who cares for and appreciates Philip. I think, 
for my own part, that he is the very best fellow that 
ever lived, and I can t bear to see his life spoiled all for 
a wretched blunder, or for want of a little mutual under- 
standing. He has changed awfully this year since you 
have been gone. He is brighter now again, because 
you are here ; but he has grown older, graver, sadder 
in your absence, and I hate to see it. Now that Terence 
is married, the way looks clear enough ; but you know 
what Philip is, and so do I ; so sensitive, so chivalrous, 
so fearful of giving pain. Of course he believes you 
were wrapped up in Terence; was it likely he would 
guess your motive } He believes you desolate and heart- 
broken. Is it likely he will intrude upon the sanctity 
of your sorrow .? Not he ; he would eat his heart out 
in silence first Look here, Lenore, the matter just lies 
here. If you will give him a chance of telling you 
what he is longing to say, all may be well ; but if you 
copy his reserve and diffidence, and go away again 
without understanding one another, you run a great 
chance of ruining your own life and his too. There, 
Lenore, I have said my say, and, if I have offended you, 
I can but apologize ; but if lookers-on see most of the 
game, as is said, then what I have told you is true, and 
I do not feel that I could be comfortable in my mind 
without saying it. I can’t bear to see things all going 
at sixes and sevens, just because there is nobody sensi- 
ble enough to speak out their minds on the subject." 

With that Duff turned and walked off. He had said 
his say, and had “ put his foot into it pretty consider- 
ably," as he told himself afterwards ; but he did not 
repent his audacity, and he had a great confidence that 
everything would yet be well. 


328 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

He met Philip strolling slowly towards the house. 

“ Well, Philip,” he said, I have done the deed.” 

“ What deed t ” 

“Told Lenore.” 

“You have ! What did she say } ” 

“She took it very quietly — did not seem at all cut up. 
I think you had better go and talk to her. She is in the 
nook by the stone pine. I fancy she would like to see 
you. You needn’t be alarmed ; she never could have 
loved or trusted Terence. She wanted to help you in 
saving him from himself ; that was all ; ” and Duff 
again made off, beginning to feel a little nervous as to 
the results of his endeavors to put things straight in 
Philip’s path. 

The evening hours passed slowly by, and he saw 
nothing of either Philip or Lenore. At last curiosity 
prompted him to stroll past the spot where he had last 
seen Lenore, in case she might still be there. 

Philip and Lenore were sitting side by side, and her 
hand rested in his. Both faces were very quiet and 
peaceful. Lenore’s eyes looked as though they sparkled 
through unshed tears ; but they could hardly be tears 
of sorrow — her face was too serene. 

“It is Duff,” she said softly. “Yes, Duff, you can 
come ; it is all right.” 

“ Wish you joy, old fellow,” said Duff, taking Philip’s 
hand and growing rather red. Then he walked off 
again, very proud and glad, but not equal to the task 
of finding words in which to express his feelings. 

“ Dear fellow ! ” said Lenore, looking after him. 
“ I don't feel as though I have ever properly appre- 
ciated him before.” 

“ We shall appreciate him doubly now,” answered 


DUFFYS DIPLOMACY. 


329 

Philip, smiling. “ He has been the best brother in the 
world to me.” 

Silence fell between them awhile, and then Lenore 
moved closer towards him. 

“ I am so happy, Philip,” she said softly ; “so very, 
very happy.” 

He bent his head and kissed her. 

“ And I too, Lenore. I never thought such happi- 
ness could be mine in this world.” 




CHAPTER XXXII. 


A STRANGE LETTER. 



'WO happy days slipped away. The family at Cot 


▼ tesmere Farm almost forg^ot their trouble about 
Terence, in delight at Philip’s happiness, and in the 
thought that Lenore would still be their sister. Now 
that one brother had proved himself so unworthy of the 
love and confidence reposed in him, they all felt more 
than ever fond and proud of Philip, and he said with a 
happy smile to Lenore that he was in danger of being 
spoiled by so much affection. 

Lenore clung to him with a deep, undemonstrative 
devotion that was almost touching in its intensity. She 
had been somewhat overwrought of late, and buffeted 
about by various strokes of fickle fortune, and for a whole 
year she had had need of all her strength to tend and 
care for another, who leaned upon her for help and 
guidance. 

All this had been a strain upon her, for she was still 
quite young, and felt herself the need of a strong arm 
on which to lean, and a deep love in which to trust 
Now all that she needed she found in Philip, and, with 
a perfect sense of restful happiness, she had accorded 




A STRANGE LETTER. 


331 

to him the promise which would link her life with his, in 
the holy and sacred marriage vow. 

Two bright days of perfect happiness had slipped 
away like a dream ; but on the morning of the third 
there came an interruption of this peaceful calm, in the 
form of an important missive from the world without. 

When Lenore came down to breakfast she found a 
thick, business-looking letter awaiting her perusal. 

“It is from Bervie," she said, looking at the post- 
mark — “about the legacy, I suppose." 

She did not open the blue envelope then. She be- 
lieved she knew the contents of the letter without look- 
ing, and she had a vague shrinking from thus bringing 
home to herself the realization of Mrs. Boghey’s death 
and the break-up of the establishment at Auckness. 

She took the letter out with her, and when she had 
seen Philip start off upon his round of duties, she made 
her way to the orchard, and slowly opened it there. 

The envelope contained two letters, the one a brief, 
business-like communication from the lawyer, the sec- 
ond a sealed packet addressed to her, as she saw at a 
glance, in Mrs. Boghey s hand. 

A wave of feeling swept over Lenore at sight of the 
well-known, characteristic writing. She could not at 
once open that letter, made thus sacred by death, but 
turned to the lawyer's epistle. 

“Dear Madam, — We have been unable before to 
communicate with you, as you had left no address 
behind you when you quitted Auckness ; and it was 
only after a careful search amongst the late Mrs. Bog- 
hey 's papers that we were able to obtain the needful 
clue as to your residence. 

“This is to inform you that the late Mrs. Boghey has 


332 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


willed to you the whole of her fortune, with the excep- 
tion of a few legacies to servants, together with the 
property at Auckness and all her personal effects. 

“ Her affairs being found in perfect order, the will 
will be proved within a very short space of time, and 
we await your instructions 

What more was written Lenore did not know. She 
laid down the letter in a bewildered way, and put up 
her hand to her head. 

What was it that had befallen her? Nothing more 
nor less than this : that in one moment she had become 
a very wealthy woman, with unrestricted control over 
what seemed to her simply boundless riches. 

Her first thought was of ^*hilip. Philip would be a 
rich man now. Philip’s cares and anxieties for the 
younger brothers and sisters would be at an end. His 
hours of weary, wearing thought were over forever. 

“ I cannot understand it, "she murmured, passing her 
hand across her eyes. “It seems too strange to be 
true. Oh, it is a great responsibility ! I must ask God’s 
grace to use it aright. I must look upon it as a trust 
from Him. Oh, how thankful I am that Philip will 
always be with me to help and guide me ! Oh, if it 
had been Terence ! How wicked I was ever to give 
way to him, how weak, how foolish ! ” She hid her 
face and almost shuddered. 

“And even if Duff had not spoken as he did, and I 
had been silent and reserved about what I thought of 
Terence’s marriage, and Philip had believed I had loved 
him, how different it might have been. If he had known 
that I was so rich, perhaps — perhaps ” 


Lenore did not finish her sentence. Her voice died 


A STRANGE LETTER. 


333 


away into silence, and she sat still, looking straight 
before her. By-and-by she took up M rs. Boghey s letter, 
read the superscription and slowly broke the seal. 

“My dear Lenore, — When you get this letter I shall 
be dead, and you will be in possession of all that I have 
to leave of this world s goods. 

“ If you remember, when you hear this news, a cer- 
tain conversation we once had together upon the subject 
of my will, you may be surprised at the way in which 
-I. have disposed of my property, and therefore I am 
writing you a brief explanation of my feelings. 

“ There are only two people in the world that I have 
really and truly loved. You are one, and my unhappy 
son Alan was the other. One of my loved ones blighted 
my life, and filled it with unspeakable bitterness ; the 
other brought into my wretched and most lonely lot a 
meed of peace and love, and even of joy, which once I 
could not have deemed possible. 

“So long as my son lived, my determination was to 
divide what I had to leave between you two. When he 
was dead there was no one left to dispute the succes- 
sion with you, and I made my will, leaving you all. It 
was made before I held that conversation with you to 
which I have referred. When I talked to you on the 
subject I knew exactly what I meant to do, but I wished 
to know your thoughts. 

“You have strong feelings in regard to family ties, 
therefore let me tell you at once, that under no circum- 
stances should I ever have left my fortune to the 
Moneys. They are nothing to me — mere connections 
by marriage, and no love has ever been lost between 
us. They have flattered me, hoping to deceive me ; 
but I have always seen through their paltry devices. In 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


334 

no case would they ever have gained anything from me. 
They have already more money than is good for them. 

“I let you leave me with an . impression that these 
relatives would inherit my wealth, and that to you 
would only come the sum of five thousand pounds. 
You will wonder why I allowed you to believe this, 
and I will explain my motive. 

“You remember how, in the winter time, your 
future husband, Terence Egremont, came to see you. 
There was something very engaging and genial about 
him, and although I, as a rule, distrust soldiers and 
handsome men, I took a kind oi liking, perhaps for 
your sake, Lenore, to this young man. 

“We had several conversations together, and I asked 
him about his future prospects. I soon learned that 
these were doubtful, and in a moment of weakness — 
how it came about I hardly know — I let out to him that 
I had intentions of leaving some property to ]^ou. I 
had hardly spoken the woi:ds before I repented of them. 
Perhaps I have grown suspicious or over-critical in my 
old age, but I fancied I saw a gleam, as of triumph or 
joy, in his eyes, and I wished I could have recalled the 
admission I had made. I liked Terence Egremont, I 
tell you, Lenore, and yet my heart often ached as I 
looked at him. His gay, msouciaiii air, his gentle man- 
ner and winning smile, reminded me over and over 
again of my unhappy boy in his early manhood. 
Were their characters, too, alike? Was the fascinating 
exterior only a mask for an unstable and selfish, heart- 
less nature ? I did not actually believe it could be so, 
but I could not rid myself of the uneasy suspicion. 

“I said to myself, ‘ Have I done Lenore an injury in 
thus making her a rich woman ? Will he seek her now 
for her wealth, not for herself? Have I paved the way 


A STRANGE LETTER. 


335 

for an unhappy and loveless marriage ? ’ I dare say 
when you read these words, Lenore, you will smile, 
and think me a very uncharitable and suspicious wo- 
man. I do not deny the accusation. 1 believe I am 
suspicious and distrustful, and I am jealous, my child, 
for your happiness. I determined upon a course of 
action which should, if possible, undo any harm \ 
might have accomplished. I held the conversation 
before alluded to. I let you carry away an erroneous 
impression, and I bid you write to Terence Egremont 
and tell him all. If he loves her, I said to myself, he 
will honor her the more for her single-mindedness and 
purity of heart ; if he has been building his hopes upon 
an ample fortune, he can make his decision before it is 
too late, and give her up. I dare say you will often, 
in your married life, smile over this strange fancy of a 
crabbed old woman. Never mind, I have acted as I 
thought best, and be the result what it may, I shall 
never repent the step I have taken. 

‘'Now let me tell you a little about, the property I 
have bequeathed to you. I have always been what 
the world calls a rich woman, and these latter years ot 
my life I have, as you know, lived so quietly that my 
money has accumulated steadily and rapidly. It is 
a surprise even to myself to see, by referring to my 
books, how large a fortune I possess. When the lega- 
cies to Campbell and other servants are paid, there will 
be, I reckon, about 170,000/. to be paid to you, in addi- 
tion to whatever sum the Auckness property may fetch. 

“It is my wish, Lenore, that you sell Auckness, 
unless you have any very strong wish to retain it in 
your possession. It has been so miserable a home to 
me, so full of sad associations, that I should shrink 
from the thought of anyone I love living there in the 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


336 

future. Let it pass into the hands of strangers, and lose 
its miserable traditions of evil. 

*‘As to the rest, I leave you full control over all, 
knowing that I leave it in worthy hands. 1 might have 
bequeathed it to charities about which I know nothing, 
or done many things the world would praise and call 
philanthropic ; but I have not chosen to do so. In 
your hands, Lenore, the money that has been but a 
curse to me, will become a blessing to many. I know 
this without a doubt, and I leave it to you with the full 
consciousness that a solemn trust will be efficiently 
carried out. Follow out, my child, the impulses of 
your heart. Make others glad and brighten clouded 
lives, as it seems your mission to do. Help on your 
adopted brothers and sisters in their paths through life ; 
do good to the sick and poor, as I know you will with- 
out any prompting ; and. may your life be a blessing to 
very many. Money can do little to promote happiness, 
but where happiness is, it can add much that gives 
innocent pleasure. Use it freely, and think sometimes 
kindly and generously of the unhappy woman, whose 
life you brightened by your love and care. 

‘'Farewell, my child — my more than daughter. 
When these lines meet your eye I shall have passed 
away forever from this world. God grant that, through 
the mercy you have taught me to believe in, we may 
meet again in a brighter one above ; and may the ever- 
lasting arms be around me and around you for ever- 
more ! Yours in deep and tender love, 

“G. H. V. Boghey. 


“Auckness Point, February 13.” 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW. 

4 ENORE raised her eyes slowly from the letter she 
had just read, and through the mist of tears that 
had gathered there, she saw that someone was ap- 
proaching slowly through fhe long grass and clover. 

She dashed the tears away and looked again, and 
her color changed slightly, for her eyes met the waver- 
ing, conscious glance of Terence, and it was he who 
now stood before her. 

For a moment neither spoke. She did not know if it 
were by accident or design that this meeting had come 
about. She sat silent in the old swing, and it was he 
who had to open the conversation. 

“ Will you not even shake hands with me, Lcnore ? ” 

She gave him her hand, and looked up into his 
troubled face. The old gay. careless look was gone. 
He was aged and worn, as though brooding over his 
past conduct had troubled his rest by night and his 
])eace by day. Lenore was touched. Her own hap- 
piness made her the more tender over the sorrows of 
others, and she could see that Terence had suffered. 
Her face told him that she bore him no ill-will for his 
treachery. 


22 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


338 

‘ ‘ Lenore, can you forgive me ? ” 

“ I have forgiven you. ' 

“Oh, Lenore,’' he cried with sudden bitterness, 
“seeing you brings it all back. I am the most miser- 
able man under the sun ! ” 

“ Hush, Terence ! Remember your wife. You 
must live for her now. Love can brighten every life, 
and bring happiness to every lot.” 

“Love!” he echoed scornfully, “love! I have 
never loved any woman but you, Lenore, and I never 
shall do.” 

“Terence,” she said, with a certain sternness in 
her voice, “you are a married man ; 1 cannot, I will 
not listen to such words.” 

“They are true ” he began recklessly ; but she 

stayed him by an imperious gesture of her hand. 

“ I am your brother Philip s promised wife-^I will not. 
-listen to you. ” 

She had silenced him now. -He gazed at her with 
wide-open, wondering eyes. . 

“Philip’s promised wife ! ” he repeated slowly. • 

She gave him no answer, no explanation, and as the 
full bearing of her words came home to him, he smiled 
bitterly, for his miserable instincts of vanity and selfish- 
ness began to assert themselves. 

“I might have spared myself my remorse and com- 
punction. You, at least, found no difficulty in consol- 
ing )murself. ” 

She raised her clear, steadfast eyes to his. 

“Did you think I should stand in sore need of con- 
solation, Terence ? ” 

“It is generally supposed that women do, who have 
lost a lover,” he answered sarcastically, “but I dare 
say it is all a delusion.” 


AN UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW. 


339 

“Or, rather, may it not depend sometimes upon who 
the lover may be ? ” 

Terence flushed somewhat at the implied rebuke. 

“You mean to tell me now, I suppose, that you 
never cared for me t ” 

“ I mean nothing but what I have always told you 
— that I never could have given you that love which I 
consider that a wdfe should give her husband.” 

“Then why on earth did you promise to be my 
wife ? ” 

She looked at him with a sort of indignant wonder 
in her eyes. 

“I think, Terence, you know, without any words of 
mine, how it was, and why it was, that I gave you my 
promise.” 

Something in her look shamed him. He was silent 
a moment, and then said with dejection : 

“You are well rid of me, Lenore ; you have done 
very wisely to give me up. My life will only be ■ a 
curse to myself and to every one else.” 

“Terence,” said Lenor6, with gentle reproof in her 
tone, “you cannot say that it was I who gave you up.” 

He looked down and made no reply. 

“ I wish you had told me all, Terence ; I wish you 
had acted differently. You might have trusted me— 
you might have trusted Philip. It has been such pain 
to us all, this discovery.'^ 

“I have acted like a fool — you cannot blame me 
more than I blame myself, or say harder things of me. 
It was all that cursed money ! I cannot do without that, 
Lenore.” 

“Oh, Terence ! ” 

“I cannot, I tell you, Lenore ; I find out more and 
more how impossible it is for me to live upon small 


340 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


means. Money is a necessity to me. Oh, Lenore, 
why did you act so foolishly — childishly ? Why did 
you stand so fatally in the way of our happiness ? If 
you had not rejected Mrs. Boghey’s splendid offer, we 
might now have been enjoying such happiness to- 
gether.” 

Lenore clasped her hands closely together, to keep 
down all expression of the indignant scorn which filled 
her soul at these words. 

“So it was the money, not me, you really loved, 
Terence. Was that the reason you hurried to Auckness 
to see me ” 

“I wished to see for myself how the land lay,” 
answered Terence unguardedly. “ I had heard vague 
reports. But you know I always loved you, Lenore. 
I asked you for my wife before ever you had the least 
prospect of wealth. I am only a practical man, whom 
a knowledge of the world has taught common foresight 
and prudence. I could not afford to marry without 
money ; it would have been an impossibility. We 
should have been most miserable. Oh, Lenore ! why 
did you fling away your prospects .? Why did you reject 
that most generous offer?” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Lenore, drawing a deep breath, “ what 
an escape I have had of a miserable, loveless marriage, 
and a money-loving, selfish husband ! ” 

“ Lenore !” cried Terence, shocked and hurt, “how 
can you misunderstand me so ! You know I always 
loved you devotedly.” 

“It was my possible fortune you loved so devotedly, 
Terence,” answered Lenore slowly and sadly. “Me 
you only loved a little. Your weak, time-serving 
affection is not worthy the holy name of love.” 

Terence was silent. He felt it hard that Lenore should 


AAT UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW. 


341 


so fail to grasp the difficulties of his situation. He 
knew he had behaved badly, but he considered that he 
had had great excuses for his conduct, and it was hard 
upon him, he thought, that she should think so lightly 
of a love which he had believed very deep and sincere. 
Women were always so sentimental and unpractical, 
he told himself, that they could not understand or appre- 
ciate the most ordinary foresight and prudence in the 
question of marriage. 

“I am sorry you find it so hard to forgive me, Le- 
nore,” he said. “I had hoped you would have had 
more trust in me.” 

“ Have you given me reason to trust you, Terence ^ ” 
asked the girl quietly ; and Terence winced at the sim- 
ple question. 

“Well,” he said resignedly, “these idle recrimina- 
tions are worse than useless. I know I have behaved 
badly, and you have a right to resent it. I am the only 
one who will suffer for my folly and weakness, and my 
life is already a ruined and miserable one. As for you, 
I hope you will be very happy.” 

“I am sure to be,” answered Lenore, a tender smile 
lighting her face. 

Terence looked at her enviously. 

“ You love Philip very much, Lenore? ” 

“ I think I have never loved anyone else.” 

“But you were engaged to me.” 

“ Yes ; I was very blind and weak ; I did not know 
myself then. I am only young, Terence; I had not 
learned my own heart. I knew I had not the right 
kind of love for you ; but I did not know I had almost 
given it to Philip.” 

He gave a dissatisfied sigh. These were not pal- 
atable revelations to him. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


342 

“ Well,” he said, “ I suppose you will live in Arcadia, 
and be as happy as the day is long- ; but I don't see 
how Philip can well afford to marry until he has the 
boys off his hands, unless he means to cut down my 
miserable pittance, and leave me wholly dependent 
upon the fortune of my wife. It is a very agreeable 
situation to be placed in, with a father-in-law always 
ready with pleasant and playful remarks and remind- 
ers ! ” And Terence laughed bitterly. 

A faint flush had risen in Lenore's face. 

“I do not think your allowance need be touched, 
Terence. And we shall be able to marry when we wish, 
without any fear of consequences.” 

“I suppose the interest of your 5,000/. legacy will go 
a long way in this simple Arcadian home," admitted 
Terence half enviously, half sarcastically. 

Mrs. Boghey’s letter lay still open upon Lenore’s knee. 
Suddenly she took it up and handed it to Terence. 

“ I think you had better read that,” she said. “You 
will not understand all the allusions ; but you will under- 
stand enough to see what has happened, and to know 
that I have not deceived you.” 

He took the papers quickly, with a wondering, 
startled glance into her flushed face. A vague uneasy 
sense of disquiet filled his soul. 

Turning slightly away from her, and leaning against 
a neighboring tree, he read the long letter, written by 
one who knew men and the world better than Lenore 
did. 

When he had read the letter slowly through, he turned 
and handed it back to Lenore. Neither spoke for a 
while ; they did not even exchange glances, but re- 
mained silent and motionless in their respective places. 


A AT UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW. 


343 

“ I congratuhite you/’ at last said Terence hoarsely ; 
but the misery in his face touched Lenore. 

“ Terence,” she said gently, “what is done cannot 
be undone ; and it is useless to grieve over an irrev- 
ocable step, once taken. But if you have made a mis- 
take from an unworthy — perhaps an unmanly — motive, 
show yourself a man now. Strive earnestly to make 
up in your future life for the mistakes of the past. Be 
an unselfish, loving husband. Oh, Terence, you might 
still lead such a noble life ! You might yet win such 
happiness as you have hardly dreamed of. Oh, do 
throw aside, all unworthy, selfish longings and regrets, 
and use the opportunities left you, the life God has given 
you, to His honor and glory, and for the happiness of 
those nearest and dearest to you. You will then, Ter- 
ence, find that happiness for which you have been vainly 
seeking all these years. It is not by living for oneself, 
but for others, that happiness comes. Try that way, 
and you will find what a holy and beautiful thing this 
life can be. ” 

Terence was moved by these words. Miserable and 
discontented as he was with himself and his life, and 
sadly conscious of the failure of his tactics, he was 
softened and humbled and ready to listen to Lenores 
teaching. 

“Tell me what to do, Lenore. God knows I have 
need of all the help I can get. Teach me what to do, 
and I will try and do it.” 

“Oh, Terence,” cried Lenore earnestly, “lay hold 
on the faith you have lost. Win back the old beliefs 
of your boyhood ; think of the lessons learnt at your 
mother's knee, which you have forgotten in the busy 
whirl of life. Ask God's help, for only He can help 
you. Make His Word your lamp and your guide. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


344 

Make God your friend, and ask that His Holy Spirit 
may be your strength and comforter. You have for- 
gotten God, but He has not forgotten you. You have 
denied Christ, but He will not deny you His help and 
His redeeming love. Oh, Terence, never rest until 
God is all in all to you, and then at last you must find 
happiness and peace — God’s own peace, which passeth 
understanding. ” 

Terence pressed his hand upon his eyes. He was 
much moved, and it was some while before he spoke 
again ; when he did so it was in a low voice, but one 
that did not waver. 

“ Lenore,” he said, “I will try. God knows I stand 
in need of help and strength. I am not worthy to ask 
help from Him ; but I suppose even I may go to Him, 
in the worthiness of Christ ’ 

“Yes, Terence; Christ’s death has given even the 
worst of us, the right to plead for forgiveness, because 
He died to save each one of us.” 

There was silence there for a while, and Terence 
seemed to muse deeply. 

“I believe Julki — that is, my wife, Lenore — is a good 
girl, though she has not been taught as my sisters have, 
and she is not like you, Lenore. I have had so little 
sympathy with her graver moods that I have silenced 
her confidences ; but I do think in her own way she 
tries to be good. She always keeps Sunday quietly, in 
spite of her father’s sneers, and has prayers with the 
servants, though he will never attend.” 

“Oh, Terence, I am so glad of that,” said Lenore 
gladly. “ She will help you — you must help one an- 
other. Does she love you very much .? ” 

“I believe she does, poor girl. She is a good girl 
enough, and much better than one could expect from 


AN- UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW. 


345 

her bringing up.' Yes, she loves me, I know, and will 
do anything for me.*' 

“Then, Terence, you will love her, will you not.? 
you will make her a good husband ? " 

“ I will try, Lendre. Poor Julia ! — yes, I will do my 
best for her. She wants me to leave the Army and 
buy a small property somewhere near here. I think I 
would, if only my family would receive her.” 

“They will do that. I will answer for it, Terence. 
I think Julia’s plan a capital one. Take her away from 
her objectionable father. Make her a good husband, 
and love her as she loves you. You will like country 
life immensely when you get interested in it. I don’t 
think Philip’s brother could be anything but a good 
farmer, and I shall come and see you from time to time, 
to see how you are getting on. You will have plenty 
of money and can live in good style, and will be 
able to have your London season and your Scotch 
shooting whenever you wish. I think you have the 
prospect of a very happy life before you, Terence ; and 
if you will make it a useful and an unselfish one, I have 
not the least doubt that you will find your marriage, 
instead of being a great mistake, has been the means 
of bringing you a greater meed of good and of content- 
ment than anything else could have done. Remember, 
I'erence, that unselfish love is the true secret of this 
world's happiness.” 

“ I do believe it is,” said he, drawing a deep sigh. 
“ Well, I will do my best. Good-bye, Lenore. God 
bless you ! ” 



CHAPTER XXXIV. i 

WEDDED. 

T hree weeks later, upon a glorious midsummer 
day, Philip and Lenore Egremont stood together 
upon the cliffs of Auckness Point, and looked over the 
blue, laughing, foam-flecked waves, which raced shore- 
wards before the summer breeze and sparkled in the 
golden sunshine. 

“Oh, Philip! ’’said Lenore, drawing a long breath, 
‘‘how beautiful it is 1 Everything here looks tenfold 
more beautiful than ever it did before, now that you 
are with me to share it.” 

He looked down at her with a proud smile. 

“ I could tell you the same tale, my Lenore, only 
that you know it already without any words of mine.” 

Lenore looked up at him with eyes full of tender 
trust and love. 

“Oh, Philip,” she said earnestly, “we are very, 
very happy. I think no two people ever could have 
been so happy before.” 

“ We waited a long while for one another ; the time 
of probation seemed hard,” said Philip, with a proud, 
happy light in his grave eyes. “But this atones for all.” 




WEDDED, 


347 

Yes," assented Lenore quietly and reverently. 
“God has been very good to us, Philip." 

Two days ago Philip and Lenore had been quietly 
married from Cottesmere. It had been found that 
Lenore's presence at Auckness was a necessity tor the 
winding-up of the establishment, and the arrangement of 
many important matters. The girl felt unable to cope 
single-handed with the responsibilities of her position, 
and looked to Philip to aid and to guide her. 

The summons to Scotland settled the matter, for she 
saw at once it would be impossible to go alone, and it 
was only Philip who could give her the advice and the 
help she needed. 

There was no reason for them to wait. Sudden as 
the engagement had been, it now seemed to both as 
though it had really existed ever since their childhood ; 
certainly their mutual love and trust had grown up from 
their earliest years. There was nothing to urge against 
an immediate marriage, and so there had been a quiet 
wedding in the little village church, and Philip and 
Lenore, bound together by the holy and sacred mar- 
riage tie, had gone away north together, to visit the 
old house at Auckness. 

A busy week followed for Philip and Lenore. The 
Auckness property was to be sold, according to Mrs. 
Boghey’s wish, and already negotiations were being 
entertained by the agents for purchase. But Mrs. 
Boghey's personal effects, her books, and much of the 
old ancestral furniture, Lenore was determined not 
to part with. 

“We will take it to Cottesmere, Philip," she said. 
“ We need new furniture there badly enough and this 
fine old oak and mahogany will be far more appropriate 
in the dear old-fashioned home than anything we should 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


348 

be likely to buy. We will take them away with us. I 
could not leave them here for strangers." 

“Yes," Philip assented, “ we will do so, Lenore. 
Now that we are to have the old home almost to our- 
selves, we shall want to make the rooms somewhat 
different. There will not be that continual tramp]i..g 
and wear and tear that we remember in old days." 

Lenore looked up at him and smiled. 

“Those dear old days, Philip. What happy times 
we always had ! What happy times we shall have yet ! 
We shall have Dora still, and the boys in their holidays ; 
and then we shall always have one another, which, 
after all, is the great thing. " 

Yes, there was a great change in store for the house- 
hold at Cottesmere Farm, and a breaking up of the 
home party was at hand. 

Duff was to realize his dream at last, and was to be- 
come an Australian sheep-farmer. Lenore had told 
them of Mrs. Boghey’s wish that her money should be 
a benefit to the Egremont family, and ten thousand 
pounds was made over to Duff as his share in the general 
good fortune. He had heard of a farmer in a large way, 
who was wishful to dispose of his property and stock 
and return to England, and negotiations were already 
on foot. A few telegrams had been interchanged, a few 
interviews Duff had held with relatives of the farmer 
in England, and the matter seemed so far satisfactory 
that he had made up his mind to start for the Antipodes 
in a few weeks’ time, to visit the property he proposed 
to purchase, and to settle down there or elsewhere as 
an independent farmer. Plenty of shrewdness and 
caution had Duff, and everyone was convinced that he 
would make his way in the world, even with a less solid 
sum to back him than his ten thousand pounds. He 


WEDDED. 


349 


had read much and learned much about the country his 
thoughts had always centred on, and there seemed no 
reason to doubt that he would make his way. But 
Madeline’s heart yearned over his isolated condition, 
and the lonely home he would have out there ; and as 
there would be no need for him to “ rough it ” very 
much, and as Lenore was coming to be mistress at 
Cottesmere Farm, she had asked to accompany him, to 
take care of his house and to make a home for him ; 
and Duff had gladly and gratefully accepted the offer, 
for the only thing he had dreaded in the new life was 
the loneliness of an empty house after the bustle and 
noise of the farm. 

Then Marjory had been seized with the love of ad- 
venture, and had begged to be allowed to come too, 
“just to help to settle Duff, and to see what another 
country looked like 1 ” Marjory had been shut up all 
her short life in her quiet home, and there seemed no 
reason why her innocent wish for a change' should not 
be gratified. So she was to join the outward-bound 
party, and thus the loneliness and pain of a general 
parting was spared to Duff, and everything went forward 
in a happy spirit of glad anticipation. As Marjory’s 
sailor-cousin “Jack” was first mate in the vessel which 
was to take them out, and as both Madeline and Marjory 
were to have the same fortune bestowed upon them as 
had been given to Duff, it seemed probable that neither 
of them would return as residents to Cottesmere. 

Dora would remain on in the old home, doing her 
quiet works of love and charity amongst the sick and 
poor around. She was very quiet and very gentle in 
her manner and reserved with all except Lenore, to 
whom she seemed able to confide freely all her sorrows 
and hopes and cares. Lenore had learned the whole 


LENORR ANNANDALE. 


350 

history of the last strange summer, and her heart went 
out in womanly sympathy towards one who had given 
up so much for the Masters sake. Sometimes, as 
Lenore looked in love and tender pride at her husband, 
she would say to herself : 

“Could I have given up as Dora has done } Could 
I have sacrificed my earthly love and happiness as she 
did.? God gives wonderful strength to meet such strong 
temptations. His grace is sufficient for our needs ; but 
not even His great love seems quite able to fill the 
blank in our lives, although it takes the sting from the 
wound. Poor Dora ! how much she has suffered, and 
how nobly she has come out of the trial, like gold tried 
in the furnace ! ” 

Terence was about to leave the Army. He was nego- 
tating the purchase of a small property about five miles 
from Cottesmere ; and in the anticipation of becoming 
a landowner and taking a more important social position 
than had ever been his before, some of the gloom and 
depression which had hung over him of late had begun 
to disappear. Since his talk with Lenore some few 
weeks back, it had seemed as if he was endeavoring 
to lead a less selfish and a more useful and lovable 
existence. 

“How wonderfully the way has opened out before 
us, Lenore ! ” said Philip, as they sat together upon 
the cliffs on the last evening of their stay at Auckness. 
“A year ago all looked so very dark before me. I 
believed I had lost you, and with you all the brightness 
of my life. Money was scarce, and the question of 
Duff’s future and the boys’ education a constant source 
of anxiety. You were amongst strangers, occupying 
a position which I could not bear you to do, and every- 
thing looked dark and cheerless before me. It only 


WEDDED. 


351 


shows how wonderfully God s love works for us, and 
how implicitly we may always trust His mercy and 
goodness. Ah, Lenore, how can I ever thank Him for 
all He has done for me in giving us to one another ! " 

“ We can give ourselves, our lives, our wealth to 
Him for His honor and glory,’' answered Lenore softly, 
as she leaned upon her husband’s shoulder, and looked 
out over the sparkling sea with eyes deep with feeling. 
“We can live to Him ; we can try to show Him by 
our love, and in our lives, all the love which our lips 
can never speak. Let us try to live very near to Him, 
Philip, to follow as closely as we can in His footsteps, 
and to be His faithful soldiers and servants to our lives’ 
ends.” 

“ We will, my precious wife, my helpmeet,” answered 
Philip with tender steadfastness ; “and may the Etenial 
God enable us to live as we would wish to live, and to 
consecrate our lives to His service.” 

“ He will be dh at, Philip — our refuge and strength,” 
said Lenore softly, “and underneath are the everlasting 
arms. We need not doubt their power to carry us 
though the storms of life to the haven of perfect rest 
above. ” 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

COMING HOME. 

\T seems,” said Lenore to her husband, as she 
* looked from the window of the railway carriage 
upon the wooded parks and green terraces of Langdale 
Hall, “it seems as though there were happier and 
brighter days in store for all of us except poor Dora. ” 

Philip and Lenore were travelling homewards at 
length, after finishing all that they had to do in Scot- 
land. Several van-loads of furniture had preceded 
them to Cottesmere, and in the train in which they 
were now travelling were Mrs. Boghey’s strong bay. 
horses, her luxurious carriage, and the beautiful little 
horse she had bought for Lenore to ride. The previous 
night had been spent by the travellers in London, and 
now they were whirling through the bright summer 
sunshine towards their own well-loved home. 

There was no station nearer than Chiveley, yet the 
line passed within two miles of Langdale and Cottes- 
mere, and as Lenore looked out at the former place in 
passing, the thought of Dora’s troubled life struck her 
with fresh force. 

Philip woke out of his reverie and looked out. 

But before he had time to answer there came a ter- 



COMING HOME. 


353 


rifle crash, followed by a terrible sensation of grinding', 
and swaying, and upheaving, which for a moment 
robbed Lenore of all consciousness of passing events. 

When she recovered from the stunning effects thus 
produced, she found herself clasped in her husband’s 
arms, and it was his voice trembling with anxiety, that 
met her ears : 

“My darling, are you hurt.? ” 

“N — no,” answered Lenore slowly and wonder- 
“I think not. Philip, what is it?” 

“An accident. We have run into something. We 
had better get out ; our carriage is a good deal shat- 
tered. Are you sure you are not hurt ? ” 

“Yes, quite sure,” answered Lenore, recovering her 
self-possession. “ I was only stunned by the crash. I 
am not hurt. And you, Philip? ” 

“ I have escaped too ; but I hear cries and groans 
from other places. I must go and help those who need 
it. See, Lenore, this door will open., -You -sit down 
on the top of the bank there. I shall know where to 
find you when I have done what I can to help! ” 

Philip strode off to the front, where help was most 
needed, and Lenore climbed the embankment, and 
looked down upon the scene below with frightened 
eyes. Their train had run into a goods train in front, 
and the engine and some of the foremost carriages were 
crushed and shattered almost to pieces, and the rails 
for some yards were torn up. All the passengers were 
crowding out, and round the spot where the damage 
was most severe, a small but dense crowd was assem- 
bled, and Lenore could not see what was going on, 
although she knew that the injured must be receiving 
relief and assistance. 

Her head swam and she felt like one in a dream, as 

23 


354 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


she wandered up and down the lop of the embankment 
where Philip had told her to remain, and exchanged 
questions and comments with the frightened and ex- 
cited travellers who had issued from the carriages. 

Reports were brought from time to time of an en- 
couraging kind. Not very many people had been badly 
hurt. Th« engine-driver was the worst. Nobody was 
killed. Some navvies were coming, and the train 
would be able to proceed as soon as the line could be 
cleared and a fresh engine brought up. These and a 
number of similar reports were brought up by those 
who ventured to the scene of action to inquire ; and 
the general panic and agitation began to subside. 
Some people, on hearing that the line was properly 
blocked, began to return to their carriages, and to 
discuss the whole affair with calmness, and even 
a certain amount of satisfaction. 

Still Philip did not come back, and as he was now 
on the farther side of the train, Lenore <:ould. not even 
see him, nor could she understand what was detaining 
him. 

Bye-and-bye she saw that the carriage they had 
brought with them had been taken out, and the horses 
put in, and she saw it drawn with some little difficulty 
up the opposite embankment, on the top of which lay 
the high road to Cottesmere; which was hardly two 
miles distant. 

‘‘Philip thinks it would make me nervous to have to 
goon in the train,” thought Lenore, “and so he has 
had the carriage taken out. How good of him ! It 
will be much the quickest and pleasantest way of get- 
ting home. ” 

The next moment Philip came striding towards her, 
and his face was very grave. 


COMING HOME, 


355 


‘"L^nore,’’ he said, “Forrester was in the train/’ 
Yes? ” she said, and looked at him, knowing there 
was more to follow. 

“He is very badly hurt. I am not sure that he is 
not dying now.” 

“Philip!” 

“There is no doctor for miles round, and no decent 
house near to take him to. I have taken out the car- 
riage and horses— rthey have hardly felt the shock, being 
so far back — and I am going to drive him straight to 
Langdale. ” 

“ Not to Langdale, Philip,” said Lenore quickly and 
earnestly — “to Cottesmere. It is nearer — take him 
there. Langdale is shut up and empty — no rooms 
aired, no servants to nurse him. Take him home, and 
we will nurse him ourselves. Send somebody off at 
once, on my little horse, for a doctor. Let him i)e at 
Cottesmere to meet us when we arrive. Dora will 
have gone to Chiveley, to meet us there. _She will be 
spared the shock. Let us take him' home, Philip, and 
at once.’’ 

He looked into her earnest, pleading face, and gave 
a quiet assent. 

“ So be it, Lenore. It will make your home-coming 
a sad one but it shall be as you wish.” 

“Not sad when you are with me, Philip,” she an- 
swered gently, as she followed him across the lines ; 
“not sad when we are helping others — doing as we 
would be done by. The sadness would come if we 
were to act selfishly ; only that could mar our happi- 
ness.” 

“God bless you, Lenore!” said Philip with quiet 
emphasis ; and then he led her to the spot where the 
carriage wa§ waiting. 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


356 

“ You had better get in. I will send off a messenger 
for the doctor, and then I will have Forrester brought 
here. Poor fellow, I am afraid it will go hard with 
him." 

Lenore sat still with clasped hands and wide-open, 
anxious eyes. It was a strange home-coming for the 
young wife — a curious fashion of entering into her 
husband’s house, bringing with them a sick man and 
a stranger to nurse. 

Philip was not long^ gone this time. When he re- 
turned he was not alone. Six men accompanied him, 
bearing upon a stretcher a rigid and motionless form, 
which they laid down, stretcher and all, across the 
wide and roomy carriage. 

The face was all that was visible — a still, white, 
handsome face, that looked as if it were carved out of 
a piece of marble. 

“ He is quite unconscious still, Lenore," said Philip, 
as he mounted the box. “In all probability, he will 
remain so for long enough ; but just^atch him, in case 
he seems inclined to come round." 

The strange drive was speedily accomplished, and 
as one who moves and speaks in a dream, Lenore found 
herself standing within the porch of Cottesmere Farm, 
giving lucid and brief directions to the wondering 
servants as to what was to be done. 

Marjory, Madeline, and Duff were in London, select- 
ing outfits. The boys were at school. Dora had gone 
down to the station to meet the train ; so the house 
was empty, save for the presence of the servants. 

The doctor drove up in his gig just as Lenore’s orders 
to the servants had been given. These were carried 
out under her direction with the utmost celerity, and 
by the time that the injured man had been carefully 


COMING HOME. 


357 

lifted from the carriage and conveyed upstairs his room 
was ready to receive him. 

Then, leaving Philip and Mr. Hunt together with the 
patient, Lenore wandered quietly over the house alone. 

How familiar it all was, and yet how different ! 
Lenore had been several weeks absent, and many 
changes had taken place since then. Painters, paperers, 
and decorators had been at work, and had left bright- 
ness and beauty behind them. 

But before she had had time to look round her, she 
saw that Dora was hastily approaching, with a white, 
troubled face. She hurried out into the porch to meet 
her. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lenore ! ” cried Dora, ‘ ‘ how thankful I am to 
see you ! I have been so miserable ! Where is Philip ? 
Is he hurt ? 

Dora's face was pale, and her eyes dilated by anxiety. 
Lenore hastened to reassure her as to their safety. 

“I heard there had been an accident," continued 
Dora ; “and it was so dreadful waiting for the train to 
come, for they said the injured would be brought there 
in it ; and when it did come, you were not there, and I 
could not find out anything, except that a lady and gen- 
tleman with a carriage had driven away, and that the 
gentleman was hurt. I knew you were bringing a car- 
riage with you. Where is Philip? Let me go to him. 
Is he much hurt ? " 

“No, dear, not at all. We both escaped most 
wonderfully. " 

“But they told me 

“ It was not Philip, dear; it was one of our fellow- 
passengers. Poor fellow, he was quite unconscious, 
and could give no account of himself. He seemed so 
bad that it would have been cruel to leave him to the 


LENORE ANNAND'ALE, 


358 

mercy of ignorant railway porters, so we just brought 
him here with us.” 

Dora’s face cleared and she drew a deep breath. 

“That was good of you. I am so glad it was not 
Philip. I have been so wretched. But the poor man, 
Lenore, where is he ? Can I do anything ? Do you 
know I have developed quite a talent for nursing these 
past months ? It will come in useful now. Is it a 
working-man ? Third-class carriages generally suffer 
most. ” 

“No, it is a gentleman — to judge by his clothes, an- 
swered Lenore guardedly. “Mr. Hunt and Philip are 
with him. We will wait and hear what they say. How 
nice you have made the house, Dora, and how well the 
things.from Auckness look in it ! I’m afraid you had 
very hard' work.” 

“I enjoyed it,” answered Dora, brightly. “I like 
hard work, and I was very happy. It is pleasant to 
see things going happily around one. Dear old Duff 
is so delighted at his prospective farm. I never knew 
before what a sacrifice he made in giving up his little 
fortune to save the family honor and to . pay Terence's 
debts. And Madeline has been brighter and more full 
of life than I have ever seen her, and Marjory is like a 
child in her eagerness and interest over every detail of 
the new life. The idea of seeing a fresh country seems 
to give her the utmost delight, to say nothing of the 
prospective voyage.” 

Lenore smiled, feeling all the while as if tears were 
readier than smiles. Was the whole family to partici- 
pate in a happiness from which Dora alone was shut 
out ? Was it to be her fate to witness the realization of 
the hopes of others, whilst her own life was desolate? 


COMING HOME, 


359 

Was fresh grief already in store for her, whilst she was 
rejoicing in the happiness of others? 

Dora fancied that Lenore was tired, and she left her 
in order to hasten on the preparations for tea. Lenore, 
thus left alone, could no longer contain herself, but 
made her way upstairs, and on the first landing met 
Philip coming down in search of her. 

“Well ? ” she asked breathlessly. 

Philip shook his head. His face was very grave. 

“ Hunt thinks very badly of him. He is terribly in- 
jured — one leg and one arm broken, a hand crushed, 
and other injuries not so easy to treat. We have tele- 
graphed for further advice ; but I believe all has been 
done that can be. 

“And you think he will die? "asked Lenore, very 
low. 

“Hunt believes him too much injured to rally ; but 
he may live days — even weeks, I believe — unless he is 
more hurt than appears as yet." 

Lenore breathed a little more freely. 

“ Is he conscious ? " 

“Not yet ; but he will probably become so later on, 
unless the brain has suffered. Hunt fancies there is a 
slight concussion, but he believes he will come to him- 
self presently. He will remain with him until the Lon- 
don doctor comes." 

“Philip," said Lenore, “what are we to say to 
Dora ? " 

“ Does she know nothing ? " 

“She does not know who it is. I could not tell her, 
fearing, as I did, that every minute might bring the 
news of his death." 

“ Poor girl," said Philip musingly, “ poor Dora ! It 
seems as though there was nothing but trouble and 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


360 

sorrow in her life. Lenore, I think we vv'ill not tell her 
to-night — not, at any rate, until we have heard what 
view a more experienced surgeon takes of the case. 
Till he has been, let her remain in ignorance.” 

Lenore was only too willing to do this, for she 
dreaded making known the melancholy truth. 

It was a strange, dream-like evening she passed, 
sitting beside Dora in the old-fashioned drawing-room, 
whilst Philip divided his time between them and the 
sick man, whose name was never mentioned between 
them. 

The surgeon from London arrived about dusk, and 
was some while shut up in the patient’s room. Le- 
nore’s anxiety grew more and more intense. 

“I think I will go up and see if I can learn any- 
thing,” she said by-and-by, in as light a tone as she 
could. 

When she reached the top of the stairs she paused, 
and in a few minutes the two doctors came out to- 
gether, and Philip, catching sight of her, came out too. 

“They are going to consult together. Will you go 
into the room for a few minutes } Then I can speak to 
Mr. before he goes.” 

“ Is there anything to do } Is he conscious ? ” 

Philip shook his head. 

“ No, only just stay in the room. There is nothing 
to do.” 

Lenore stole quietly into the quiet room. 

Gordon Forrester lay like one dead upon the bed, 
his face as colorless as the pillow upon which it rested, 
and as calm and free from lines of pain as the face of 
the dead. 

Lenore stood looking down upon the noble head, a 
strange expression upon her face. 


COMING HOME. 361 

And God made man in His own image," she mur- 
mured, “ and man denies the God who made him." 

She stood a long while beside the bed, one thought 
chasing another through her mind, but this one ever 
recurring again and again : 

“Will he die in the darkness in which he has 
lived? Is the shadow of death falling already upon 
him? Will it be to him a horror of great darkness? 
Will God’s face be turned away ? " 

Suddenly, whilst she was thus pondering, the dark- 
fringed lids suddenly lifted themselves, and a pair of 
keen black eyes looked into hers. 

“Where am I? " asked Gordon Forrester in the old 
decisive tone, in which there was no trace of feebleness 
or bewilderment. 

“You are at Cottesmere Farm, amongst friends," 
answered Lenore quietly. 

“ I do not know you," he said quickly. 

“ I am Lenore — Philip Egremont’s wife." 

He looked keenly at her. 

“ I understand. Is Dora here ? " 

“She is in the house." 

A sharp contraction crossed his face. 

“I came to ask her to but that is nothing. This 

railway accident has put a stop to all that. Am I 
dying?" The question came as coolly as if the matter 
were of small importance. 

“I do not know," answered Lenore, speaking stead- 
ily, although she trembled. 

‘ ‘ I am in danger ? ” 

“ I hardly know — not immediate." 

“Do not be afraid to speak, Mrs. Egremont. Yen 
need not be tender over me. I know the game is 
played out at last. I am not afraid of the oblivion of 


362 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

death. Sometimes I have wished for it. I should like 
to have seen Dora ; but 'tis no matter, and she is too 
holy to be contaminated by a sinner like me. Tell 
her " 

And here the voice, which was unnaturally firm and 
strong, broke altogether, and Forrester relapsed into 
unconsciousness. 



V 


■ I.--/' . 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AT THE GATES OF DEATH. 

i i ^OW has he passed the night, Philip ? ” asked 
Lenore of her husband the next morning. 

Philip looked pale and haggard, and his face told by 
itself a bad tale. 

“Restlessly and miserably, in pain of body and 
mind. Ah, Lenore, it is a fearful thing to see a human 
soul stand at the very gates of death, without one hope 
of the life to come, without one thought of God’s love, 
to bring comfort and help." 

Philip passed his hand wearily across his eyes, and 
Lenore’s glance was full of tender sorrow. 

“ Philip, mus/ he die ? ’’ 

“I fear he has no chance. The doctors say he 
mighf live, almost by a miracle, as there is no abso- 
lutely fatal injury ; but he is so much shattered, so ter- 
ribly hurt, that recovery is all but hopeless, and nothing 
but the most perfect quiet of both body and mind can 
save him. His brain has been working all night long 
without intermission ; his active mind will not rest. 
He is killing himself by his incessant and feverish 
restlessness. " 

“ Is anything troubling him ? ” 

“ I believe his own state before God is troubling him. 




LENORE ANNANDALE, 


364 

I believe he is reaping all the desolation and despair of 
his own terrible creed. He is standing face to face 
with death, and I believe he is realizing that death will 
not be the simple annihilation he has always thought 
or professed to think it. A future of some kind is 
spreading mysteriously before him, and there is no 
light shining upon it. All is as dark and shadowy as 
the grave itself." 

Lenore's eyes had grown deep and dreamy with 
feeling.” 

“I know what it is, Philip ; I have seen something 
of it. It is terrible to witness ; but fear and pain are 
better than that dreadful indifference. God is very 
merciful. Light may come. There is time — the end is 
not very near .? " 

“ I trust not; but he is minimizing his time and his 
small chance of recovery by his restlessness and silent 
misery. His rambling talk, when the fever was on 
him, was much of Dora. It might quiet him ta see 
her. In any case, I think that she ought to be told 
now. " 

“ I think so too. She might do more for him than 
any of us can do. But you look tired out, Philip. You 
must have some breakfast, and then you must rest. 
Who is with him now ? " 

“Campbell. What a fortunate thing we let her 
come here ! She will be a treasure to us now. She 
seems to have a genius for nursing. Both doctors have 
remarked it.” 

“Yes, poor Campbell has had only too much to do 
with sickness and suffering. I think now she is almost 
more at home with it than with happiness and joy. 
She will indeed be a treasure to us.” 

Campbell had been for nearly a week an inmate of 


AT THE GATES OF DEATH 365 

Cottesmere Farm. She had remained at Auckness, 
after Mrs. Boghey’s death, to take care of the house ; 
but when it was dismantled and put up for sale, she 
had felt desolate and homeless beyond all endurance. 
She had no relatives of whom she knew anything, and 
she had made no friends. Her life had been wrapped 
up in her mistress, and she had loved none but her and 
Lenore. When she learned that the old establishment 
was to be broken up, she implored, with tears in her 
eyes, that Lenore would permit her to enter her service, 
as there seemed nobody else in the world to whom she 
could turn. 

Lenore consented gladly, knowing what a loyal and 
faithful heart she thus gained, and Campbell had accom- 
panied the Auckness properties to Cottesmere, and was 
already established there as a trusted and trustworthy 
maid to its young mistress. 

“Shall we go into the garden, Dora.? ” said Lenore, 
as they rose from rather a silent breakfast. 

Dora looked up quickly, and followed without a 
word. She saw that something was weighing upon 
the minds of Philip and Lenore, but what it was she 
had no idea. The fact that there was a stranger lying 
upstairs* in an almost dying state was enough to account 
for much, but she did wonder that they spoke of him 
so little and so guardedly. 

Lenore’s face was pale and grave, and she walked 
along in thoughtful silence, whilst Dora looked at her 
from time to time, and presently inquired : 

“ Is something troubling you, Lenore ? ” 

“ Yes, Dora.” 

“ I am sorry. Can I help you ?” 

“ Our trouble is more on your account than on our 
own.” 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


366 

“ On my account ? ” 

“ Yes. Do you know, Dora, that the man upstairs 
is very dangerously ill ? ” 

Dora was surprised at this sudden change of subject, 
but she answered : 

“Yes, I know he is. Do the doctors say he will 
die ? ” 

“ They do not say he absolutely must die ; but they 
think it probable that he will die.” 

“ Do you know who he is, and where he comes from ? 

“ Yes ; he is able to speak now.” 

“ Should you not send for his friends } ” 

“ I believe, Dora,” answered Lenore significantly, 
“ that there is only one friend he wishes to see.” 

Dora looked at her earnestly. 

“ What do you mean ” 

“I mean, that I believe his only wish is to see you 
again.” 

The color died out from Dora’s face. 'She stopped 
still, and faced Lenore v^ith dilated eyes. 

“ Tell me who it is ! ” 

The question was almost voiceless. The lips alone 
formed the words. 

“ Gordon Forrester ! ” 

For a full minute there was silence. The sisters 
stood looking into each other’s faces, without trying to 
put their thoughts into words. 

“ I will go to him,” said Dora at length. “ Take 
me to him, Lenore.” 

They ascended together the shallow stairs ; together 
they entered the darkened room and stood beside the 
bed. 

Forrester’s eyes opened slowly, and a sudden light 
flashed into their dark, hopeless depths. 


A T THE GA TES OF DEA TH. 


367 


“ Dora!" 

“ Gordon — I am come to you," she said quietly, 
speaking his name for the first time. 

His eyes were fastened upon her with an unutterable 
yearning, in which love and sorrow and despair were 
strangely blended. 

“ You would not help me to live, Dora," he said ; 
“ will you help me to die? " 

He stretched out his uninjured hand feebly towards 
her, and Dora took it gently in both of hers. 

Then Lenore quietly stole from the room, signing to 
Campbell to follow. No third person s presence should 
disturb the solemn sanctity of that strange and sad 
reunion. 

Lenore found ample occupation for hands and head 
in the readjustment of household matters. 

Life at Cottesmere was not to go on quite in the old 
grooves, now that money was plentiful and the house- 
hold -diminished. 

Some changes should be made now. Lenore was- 
determined that Philip should at last occupy the 
position that was his by right, as head of the 
Egremont family — one of the oldest families in the 
county. 

She had no wish to leave the old house they both 
loved so well— no wish to change it for a grander res- 
idence, which her fortune would have enabled her to 
purchase and to keep up. But she was steadfastly 
purposed that the old home and the old life should be 
greatly modified and changed, according to ideals of 
her own. 

The broad pasture lands should be turned into park ; 
hedges should be removed and trees planted ; and the 
shining Mere, about which Philip so much loved to 


LENOKE ANNANDALE. 


368 

ramble, should no longer be surrounded by a tangled 
mass of underwood and briars, but should be made 
beautiful without losing any of the charm of its wild- 
ness. The gardens should be laid but now according 
to those old ideals over which she and Philip had spent 
many happy hours of discussion in past days. The 
smooth terraces and shady avenues, the rose garden 
and greenhouses which had been dreamed of when 
the ship came in,” should now become realities, and 
Philip s home should be made fit for him within and 
without. 

Lenore’s busy brain was full of tender plans for 
Philip s happiness and Philip's good, as she went about 
her work that day. Not even her sympathy and sor- 
row for the two she had left together upstairs could 
drive out of her heart the sunshine of the joy of her 
deep love for her husband. She could not but be happy 
this first day spent in his home as his wife ; she could 
not but make plans and dreams of which he was always 
the hero — the centre figure, round which . all must 
revolve. 

Nearly three hours had passed before Dora came 
down from Forrester s room. She came to Lenore in 
the little study, where with loving hands the young 
wife was putting finishing touches of beauty, and her 
face was pale and her eyes dark with suppressed 
emotion. 

“Dora, dearest Dora!” said Lenore quietly and 
tenderly, and put both arms round her neck in a caress 
that spoke more eloquent sympathy than words could 
do. 

Dora heaved a deep sigh — almost a gasp. 

Lenore ! ” she cried, “ Lenore, must he die ? ” 

She dared not hold out hopes. 


AT THE CATES OF DEATH. 369 

“ I fear there is but little chance of life.” 

Dora shuddered, and Lenore’s arms held her more 
closely. 

“ Dear Dora, it is the hardest trial that can come to 
us, to lose those whom we love. I know I cannot 
comfort you. Only One can do that.” 

“ It is not that, Lenore,” said Dora with deep-drawn 
breath — “not that — I could bear the parting — bear 

anything, if only ” Here she shuddered again, and 

her A^oice died away. By-and-by she looked up and 
spoke more steadily, though her face was white and 
haggard, and from tirhe to time contracted with mental 
pain. 

“I can bear my own grief, my own loss; but his 
dark despair is too terrible. He feels the need of help 
and comfort now ; but he has turned his face from God 
so long, and now it seems as if God had turned His 
face from him.” 

“Seems, Dora, only seems,” answered Lenore, 
with the deep earnestness of faith and certain hope 
shining in her eyes. “Gods face is never turned away 
from His children who are groping from darkness into 
light. '• 

“ I know, I know ; but it is very hard to see him in 
such black darkness,” cried Dora sadly. 

“ The approach of death lifts the veil from most eyes, 
unless they are wilfully blind. He feels already that 
death cannot end his spiritual life — that is the first step, 
the rest must follow. Help him, Dora, help him all 
vou call. We will all pray for hirn. 

Do so ! ■’ she cried earnestly ; “ prayer is so power- 
ful ; I have found that out long ago. I will help him— 
I must. He will talk to no one else. Sometimes I feel 
as though my faith mus! save him— God seems so near, 

24 


370 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


SO ready to come to him. I know that my Redeemer 

liveth ” Dora t^irned away, her face working with 

the intensity of her emotion ; and Lenore breathed a 
silent prayer for her and him whom she loved. 




CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MAN AND WIFE. 

^ \T is useless to urge me now. I have no strength ; 

^ my mind is weak and bewildered ; I cannot 
think, much less reason,” said Forrester faintly. “The 
sound of your voice, the touch of your hand seem to 
bring heaven near, but as soon as you are gone the 
black darkness comes and swallows me up. Ah, 
Dora ! if you would have been my wife, you could 
have led me whither you would, but you would not 
undertake the task. I was too wicked for you — too 
hardened a sinner.” And he laughed a short, bitter 
laugh. 

“ Not that, Gordon, not that,” answered Dora gently, 
though face and voice betrayed the pain his words 
gave her. “ Your words are not just, nor are they 
true. I should not have led you ; it is you who would 
have led me. You best know at what goal you would 
have landed me.” 

“ But you would have been my wife,” he said with 
restless irritability. “ That would have atoned for all. 
I should have known what happiness was. I could 
have died in peace.” 



372 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


“Could you?” she asked. 

He looked up into the face above him, which had 
grown pale and wan with three long days of anxious 
watching. In his eyes that face was more beautiful 
than any other in the whole world 

“ If you were my wife,” he said wdth slow delibera- 
tion, “I could conquer death in the might of my love. 
Love and hope, and the certainty of future happiness 
would give me strength to live. I have nothing now 
to live for, and I shall die.” 

Their eyes met in a long, strange gaze, the meaning 
of which was hardly understood by either. Dora’s 
face turned red, and then more pale than before, and 
her clasped hands trembled a little. 

“ Gordon,” she said softly and clearly, “ if hope and 
love can save you, let them. Hope and love on ; I 
will do the same. You must not feel that you have 
nothing left to live for, if it is anything that I can give.” 

He was looking steadily at her. 

“You mean, you love me, Dora ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You mean that if I live, you will be my wife ? ” 

“Yes. ” 

A sudden light leaped to his eyes, and then died 
slowly out. 

“You think so now, Dora,” he said slowly and 
sadly ; “ you think that I shall be a different man from 
what I have been, if I recover from this illness. Do 
not build upon that. I have no hope yet of being other- 
wise than I am — what men term an atheist.” 

“ I believe you will be a different man, if God raises 
you up again,” answered Dora steadily ; “but that is 
not why I give myself to you. I will marry you if you 
still love me, whatever your views are,” 


MAN AND WIFE, 


373 


*‘Last year you would not ’" 

“ Last year I dared not” 

“You feared me then ? ” 

“Yes ; I feared you would lead me into your land 
of darkness — 1 believe you would have done so then." 

“And now you fear that no longer? ” 

“No. ” 

“ Why is that ? Am I weaker or are you stronger ? ” 

She looked down upon him with a faint, §weet smile 
which he hardly understood. 

“Both, I think.” 

He gazed at her and moved restlessly upon his bed. 
She seemed like an angel of light to him, in her 
womanly tenderness and serenity. She seemed im- 
measurably above him — as an angel of God. 

“ You bid me hope, you bid me love ! ” he cried with 
more of despair than of hope in his voice, “and I 
cannot — I cannot You pity me, now that I lie here 
helpless, and pity is akin to love, but it is not love 
itself. When health and strength come back you will 
speak and think differently — I cannot believe you will 
ever be my wife.” 

“Gordon!” she said, with gentle reproach in her 
tone. 

“I cannot,” he answered wearily, “and the doubt 
will haunt and help to kill me. No, Dora, let us forget 
the words we have just spoken ; let me die in loneliness 
and indifference. Had you been my wife, I think I 
could have lived for you ; I think your love could have 
so rested and soothed me that I could have battled 
with death itself ; but it was not to be. I was not 
worthy of you and now I will die alone.” 

A quick flush mounted to Dora's face and as quickly 
died away. It was several minutes before she spoke, 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


374 

and he had closed his eyes wearily and turned his head 
somewhat away. 

She took his hand in both of hers, and touched it 
with her lips. 

“ Gordon," she said tenderly and steadily, “I will be 
your wife now." 

His eyes flashed open and fastened upon her, in an 
earnest, wondering gaze 

“ You will be my wife now t ’’ he repeated 

“ Yes," she answered steadily. 

“You will marry a dying man?'' 

“I would marry you even if I knew you were dying, 
if I could thus make the end more happy or more 
peaceful, " she answered in the same.quiet way. ‘ ‘ I will 
marry you now, if you will have it so, and will tend 
you, and nurse you, and live for you, and you will 
battle with sickness and wdth death for my sake, as 
well as for your own ; and it may be that God in His 
mercy will raise you up again." 

The light of hope and of love was already brightening 
the weary eyes, but not all at once could Forrester grasp 
at the happiness within his reach. 

“You are an angel, Dora,” he said with slow em- 
phasis. “I cannot tell you one tithe of what I feel 
towards you — it would be impossible. But your family 
will not permit it ; why should they ? What am I to 
them ? They will not permit it, so let us think no 
more of it. ” 

“Philip and Lenore will not oppose it," answered 
Dora quietly. “ I can answer for them. Besides what 
other people say matters little. You are more to me 
than all the world beside. What you decide shall be 
done. I will be yours if you bid me. I am of age. I 
have the right to give myself to you.” 


AfAN- AND WIFE, 


37S 

“Ah, Dora, Dora!” he cried passionately, “your 
words give me power and hope — you are my very life. 
But can I accept so great a sacrifice ? ” 

“Sacrifice 1 ” she repeated gently, “what sacrifice? 
My heart is yours already. What sacrifice can it be, 
that our love is sanctified by that holy bond? You 
must indeed doubt my love, if you can use such a 
word. ” 

“ Doubt your love! No, Dora, I cannot do that ; 
but I must think for you, who will not think for your- 
self. Suppose I die? I may do so, likely enough. 
Ought I to condemn you to an early widowhood? ” 

“I cannot mourn for you more deeply than I shall 
do in any case,” answered Dora quietly, though her 
voice shook and her lip quivered. “Oh, Gordon, to 
lose you would be like losing life itself. Why should I 
not have the right to mourn in the eyes of the world ? 
Would there be any sacrifice in that ? ” 

That pathetic, tremulous tone settled the question. 

Forrester ceased to raise obstacles to the realization 
of his fondest dreams. He opened his heart to receive 
the love so fully and freely offered, and, looking into 
her tender, tearful eyes, the world was forgotten — all 
was forgotten in the paradise of their deep love. 

He stretched out his hand with a mute gesture more 
expressive than a caress. 

“ Dora — my wife — come to me. This makes atone- 
ment for all.” 

Lenore was in the garden, waiting for Philip to come 
in from his supervision of farm improvements, which 
had already been set on foot, when she saw Dora ap- 
proaching slowly, and the expression upon the girl's 
face arrested her attention. There was something in- 
expressibly sweet and sad in her look, but the sorrow 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


376 

was not that of hopeless despondency, rather of a love 
so deep as to bring with it actual pain. 

“ Lenore,” she said, “ 1 was wanting you. I wanted 
to find you alone.” 

“ What is it, Dora .? He is not worse.? ” 

“No, I think not, I trust not. Lenore, we want to 
be married now — as quickly as possible. Please will 
you tell Philip, and will he do what is necessary .? You 
will be my friend in this, Lenore .? ” 

The young wife looked at the girl, and sudden tears 
sprang to her eyes ; but Dora had not appealed to her 
in vain. 

“It shall be as you wish, dearest,” said Lenore, kiss- 
ing her tenderly. “I will tell Philip about it ; I will 
answer for him — we will both be your friends.” 

Three days later Gordon Forrester and Dora Egre- 
mont were married, in the quaint old bedroom where 
he lay helpless, perhaps dying, in Cottesmere Farm. 

Philip and Lenore and the young doctor alone were 
present, the latter on account of the patient's critical 
state, for the excitement, it was thought, might cause a 
relapse, and medical help be needed. 

It was a short and solemn service which joined in 
one those two lives “till death should them part,” whilst 
all the while the angel of death seemed hovering very 
close above them, ready almost at any moment to claim 
his prey. 

Dora was quite calm and serene, and plighted her 
troth with unfaltering voice, and Forrester’s low tones 
were hardly less firm than hers. A deep calm seemed 
to have fallen upon both, a peacefulness and rest born 
of their own deep love, and of the actual knowledge 
that all uncertainty was over^j^and that they were joined 


MAN AND WIFE. 


377 

together by a tie too strong for any human power to 
break. 

After the holy words of mutual dedication had been 
spoken, all stole quietly from the room, leaving the 
husband and wife alone together. 

“ My wife ! " said Forrester, and clasped her hand in 
his, seeming to need no other word to express his feel- 
ings. “My wife!” 

She bent and kissed his lips. Kisses had not been 
so frequent between them as to lose their sense of near- 
ness and tenderness ; this one was almost solemn in 
its meaning — the first kiss after marriage, such a kiss as 
could be given but once in a lifetime. 

“ What God has joined together, let not man put 
asunder,” she said in a low, clear voice. “Gordon, 
will you love the God who has given me to you and 
joined our lives in one? ” 

“My heart is full to overflowing of love,” answered 
Forrester slowly. “Dora, wife, if such love as yours 
exists upon earth, such angelic goodness and self-sac- 
rifice ; I can almost believe it must have its counter- 
part elsewhere — in the God in whom you trust. Pray 
to him, Dora, if He can hear prayer, that He will at 
last reveal Himself to me.” 




CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A UNITED FAMILY. 

\T was the first day of September, and the golden sun- 
^ light bathed the world in a flood of glory. 

A large party was gathered upon the lawn before 
Cottesmere Farm — a family party larger now than even 
in the old days, for more than one new member had 
been added to its ranks during the past year. 

It was the eve of the departure of the Australian 
travellers. Their journey had been postponed some- 
what by the exigencies of outfit and what not, to say 
nothing of Marjory’s anxiety to wait for “Jack's ship," 
which had had to give place to another, and to wait a 
few weeks to repair some damage a storm had inflicted. 
This delay had given time for letters from Australia to 
reach them, and, as far as it was possible to judge, the 
farm Duff was thinking of buying was in a most satis- 
factory state, and would suit him to a nicety. 

He and his sisters were in excellent spirits. Made- 
line's regrets at leaving the old home were far fewer 
(seeing Lenore was now its mistress), than those that 
would have troubled her had Duff been going out 


A UNITED FAMILY. 


379 


alone, to lead a solitary life in a strange land. Then, 
Marjory’s companionship would insure them both 
against any kind of dulness, for her spirits were unfail- 
ing, her delight at the thought of the new and adven- 
turous life unbounded, and as She could be almost 
equally useful and suggestive to Duff as to farm matters 
and live-stock, as she could to her sister upon house- 
hold affairs, there seemed no reason why the Australian 
home should not be a very bright and happy one. 

“ I can hardly believe I am really going at last, ’’said 
Duff, leaning back in his chair and looking round him 
with a smile. “And in such style too — very different 
from the one I used to picture. Lenore, I’ve never 
thanked you, and, what’s more, I don’t feel as if I ever 
could ; but you shall see I will not play ducks and 
drakes with your gift.” 

“ Not my gift. Duff — Mrs. Boghey’s legacy,” returned 
Lenore with a smile. “ It was her own wish that you 
should all share what was willed to me. She made 
that quite plain.” 

“ Well, whatever way you like to look at it. I’m very 
much indebted to somebody,” returned Duff. “And it 
seems to me pretty clear that Lenore’s the person most 
concerned in the matter.” 

“ You deserve to realize your ideal at last. Duff,” she 
answered, smiling. “You were so good about your 
disappointment of past days.” 

“Well, I can never regret that any more,” said Duff 
heartily, “for if I had gone out then it would have been 
uphill work, and I should have been alone. Now, with 
your “legacy,” and Madeline and Marjory to make it 
home for me, I shall have everything heart could wish, 
and I consider myself a very lucky fellow.” 

“ I wish you’d say something of the kind before Ter- 


380 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

ence when he comes,” said Philip. “ I think it would 
please him.” 

“ I will with pleasure,” assented Duff heartily. 
“Poor old Terence ! I believe I was rather down upon 
him in my thoughts, even if I didn’t say much. I m 
glad he will be here to-day. I thought him looking 
much better and jollier than he has been doing for a 
long while, when I met him in town last week. Per- 
haps he is not so unhappy in his married state as we 
had imagined.” 

“ I do not think he is unhappy at all,” answered 
Lenore. “You know, we have hardly seen anything 
of them yet, because they have been away, and the 
house they have bought has been undergoing repairs, 
and so on, and they are only just settled in it now. But 
Terence’s letters have been very bright and hopeful, 
ever since he really cut his connection with the Army 
and his associates there, and escaped from his father-in- 
law’s influence. His legacy has made him feel inde- 
pendent again, and when I saw them, they both seemed 
wonderfully happy and fond of one another.” 

“You have seen them both then ? ” 

“Yes, Philip and I spent a day there last week ; 
helping them to arrange the house and to get settled.” 

“And what is she like.?” asked Marjory eagerly, and 
both sisters drew near to listen to the answer. “ Is she 
very coarse .? ” 

“No,” answered Lenore decidedly. “She is not 
coarse at all.’' 

“ Oh, I am glad ! ” cried Marjory gladly; and Made- 
line added, more gravely. 

“So am I. It seemed so dreadful to think that our 
Terence should make a low marriage, which would 
render his whole life miserable. Tell us something 


A UNITED FAMILY. 381 

about her, Lenore. What is she like ? Does she care 
for Terence ? Will she try to make him happy ? 

“I am sure she does and will. She is far, far nicer 
than I expected, and will make him, I think, a very 
good and sensible wife. She has plenty of firmness as 
well as affection.” 

At this point an interruption occurred, which for a 
while put an end to the discussion of Terence’s affairs. 

A couch was standing upon the lawn, as though it 
had been wheeled out for someone who had not yet 
arrived, and now there slowly issued from the house 
the tall, gaunt form of Forrester, who leaned rather 
heavily upon his wife’s shoulder, supporting himself on 
the other side with a stout stick. 

Philip sprang forward to assist him, and in a few 
minutes he was comfortably settled upon his couch, and 
looked round with great satisfaction, for this was the 
second time only that he had been able to get out of 
doors at all, and he had never been so far as the shaded 
lawn before. 

“Well,” remarked Duff, “a fine scarecrow they have 
made of you amongst them, Forrester. You’ve had a 
pretty good spell of your bed, to judge by the looks of 
you.” 

“ Eight weeks, and a variety of broken bones,” an- 
swered Forrester lazily. “No, I suppose the effect is 
not becoming ; but my wife saves me all trouble in the 
adorning of my person, so that I do not have recourse 
to a glass in which to plume myself upon my 
charms.” 

“You should have seen him three weeks ago. Duff,” 
said Dora laughing ; “then you might have had some- 
thing to remark upon.” 

“A nice kind of bridegroom you make, old fellow,” 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


382 

remarked Duff, who was leaning over the head of the 
couch, surveying the prostrate form of his friend with a 
glance of honest commiseration, though he continued 
to chaff him gently and lazily. “ A very pretty kind of 
young man to make a lady an offer of marriage.” 

Forrester smiled, and a twinkle in his eye showed 
that his old love of teasing had not deserted him. 
Holding his wife’s hand more closely in his, he an- 
swered Duff’s sally : 

“I rather fancy it was the lady that made me the 
offer. Very obliging, was it not.!*” 

“ Humph ! ” said Duff. “ Well, there’s no account- 
ing for taste.” 

“You don’t see the attraction 

“Well, no, I can’t say that I do.” 

“What ! not in the prospect of being left a handsome 
young widow, with house and lands at disposal.?* But 
you see I cheated wife and doctors and all, and now 
she has to put up with the encumbrance of a lame 
scarecrow of a husband to wait on. But, to do her jus- 
tice, she puts up with the encumbrance very resign- 
edly.” 

“ Gordon ! ” exclaimed Dora gently, half pained by 
his words, despite the pressure of the hand that held 
hers. 

Duff laughed and said : 

“ But you won’t be lame always.? ” 

“ I hope not; but they tell me it will be a precious 
long while before I am good for anything again, al- 
though I have done so wonderfully well these past 
weeks. It would have been a lively look-out, if I 
hadn’t had the forethought to take to myself a wife. 
As it is, I am marvellously contented to lie like a log 
and be waited on.” 


I A UNITED FAMILY. 383 

His eyes sought Dora’s, and she smiled again, for 
these words made atonement for the last. 

“And to-morrow,” continued Forrester, “my wife 
and I go at last to Langdale, which is now in order to 
receive its mistress, Lenore, won’t you be very glad 
when this great exodus to-morrow is over, and you 
and Philip are left to enjoy your home at last in peace 
You can hardly have felt yet to have entered upon your 
married life. All has been trouble and turmoil so far.” 

Lenore advanced smiling. 

“ I do not think we have had anything to complain 
of so far, Philip and I ; and we shall still have Hector 
and Archie left, even after the ‘great exodus.’ Are you 
sure you feel equal to the move to-morrow, Gordon .? 
You must not do anything to throw yourself back.” 

Whilst Forrester answered Lenore, Duff drew back 
and said in low tones to Philip : 

“Did it never strike you, old fellow, that if Forrester 
there had died, as seemed so probable, that is just what 
the world would have said of Dora’s marriage.?” 

“What.?” 

“What he said just nowin chaff— the rich young 
widow with property and fortune. It struck me 
directly I heard of it. I suppose you and Lenore were 
too unworldly, and too much in sympathy with the ro- 
mantic side of the situation, to think of such a thing. 

“Not exactly that,” answered Philip ; “that side of 
the question did strike us both, but we decided to 
hold our peace. The question of money and property 
never for a moment crossed Dora’s mind. She was 
simply wrapped up in her devotion to him, and it 
seemed only cruel to put the idea into her head, to 
harass and trouble her. Both doctors agreed that noth- 
ing could save him whilst the feverish restlessness was 


384 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

wearing him out, and it seemed as though nothing but 
the certainty of Dora’s love, which only marriage 
would give, could bring to him any peace of mind. 
At any rate, when they were made man and wife, all 
that exhaustion and fever left him, and the doctors say, 
without hesitation, that the marriage saved his life. 
Therefore, I cannot think we did wrong, although I 
knew all along that, if he should die, our motive and 
Dora’s would be misconstrued.” 

“All’s well that ends well,” said Duff with a laugh. 
“I believe you did right ; but, except for the lucky ac- 
cident of Forrester’s having no near relatives, very un- 
pleasant things might still be said by the ill-disposed.” 

“ I am aware of it,” answered Philip, “ but I do not 
believe we shall be much troubled in that way. For- 
rester would pretty soon put his foot down if he ever 
heard a word, and I doubt if Dora would vex herself, 
whatever was said. Her husband is all in all to her. 
What outsiders say or think would be nothing, in her 
estimation, so long as he was happy. ” 

No more could then be said, for Hector set up a 
shout of — 

“ Here’s Terence ! ” 

This caused a diversion, and all eyes were eagerly 
fastened upon the pair who now advanced. 

It was the first time that Mrs. Terence Egremont had 
visited Cottesmere, and none of the family, save Philip 
and Lenore, had ever seen her. 

She was a fine, well-made woman, with dark, hand- 
some eyes and a profusion of dark hair, which grew 
low down upon her forehead, and gave a somewhat 
Jewish character to her rather pronounced type of feat- 
ures, Her dress and bonnet were creamy ' white, 


A UNITED FAMILY. 385 

rather elaborately trimmed with costly lace, but there 
was nothing out of taste in her costume. 

She was very well received by the party assembled 
there, and Terence looked on, evidently gratified and 
grateful. His wife’s manners were good, and she went 
through the trying ordeal of introduction with an ease 
and self-possession hardly to be expected of anyone so 
situated. Lenore’s tact covered all awkward pauses, 
and very quickly conversation flowed as readily and 
easily as it had done before. 

Tea was carried out, and under its social influence the 
party waxed merry. Duff’s prospects were dicussed 
with zest, and he made it plain to all how well worth 
waiting for he considered this chance to be. 

Terence looked gratified, and, leaning over to his 
brother, said in a low voice : 

‘ ‘ Duff, old fellow, I am more glad than I can say 
about all this ; but, all the same, I don’t consider my- 
self absolved from making restitution for my dishonesty 
in past days. Julia tells me it was real dishonesty, and 
I believe she is right. No, don’t interrupt me. We 
have talked it over, my wife and I, and the sum which 
you gave up to pay my debts four years ago is going 
to be paid in to your account at your bankers, with 
interest and compound interest. When that is done, I 
shall feel that my last debt is paid, and that what we 
have is ours to enjoy.’" 

“ Nonsense, Terence ! ” cried Duff quickly. “ I have 
enough, and more than enough, for all I want. I will 
not allow you to do any such thing.” 

“Yes, you will. Duff,” returned Terence, “I am sure 
you will, when I tell you that in no other way can I 
ever feel to rid myself of a very heavy burden of shame 
and self-reproach. Of course, it is a very poor kind of 

25 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


386 

restitution, I am quite aware of that, made at a time 
when it costs me so little, whilst your sacrifice cost you 
so much ; but it is the only one that I can make, and I 
am sure you will not deny my right to do what I pur- 
j)Ose, nor refuse to allow me to shift this burden, 
which fills me with disgust at myself every time I think 
of it.” 

“Well, if you put.it in that way, I suppose I must,” 
said Duff reluctantly. “But I don’t half like it, and I 
have plenty without. I don’t need it one bit.” 

But Terence insisted ; and when Philip heard, he cer- 
tainly approved the plan, as being in accordance with 
his own ideas of justice, and a better understanding 
was established between the brothers on the eve of 
their separation, than had ever existed before. Brighter 
days seemed dawning for all. 






CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE LAST. 

\T was a bright day in June, the second anniversary of 
^ Philip and Lenore’s wedding-day. 

Lenore herself, hardly one whit changed by the two 
years of married life that had passed over her head, 
stood at her husband’s study window, looking out with 
a thoughtful smile upon the beautiful scene without. 
Two years had worked great transformation in the gar- 
dens of Cottesmere (now no longer called Farm). 
Philip’s ideals of past days had in the main been realized 
and the place was deservedly called the most charming 
and picturesque in the county, and would become 
increasingly so with each year’s growth of shrub and 
creeper and tree. 

“It is lovely, very lovely,” said Lenore softly to her- 
self, “and such a happy, happy home I ” 

Pier face had lost nothing of its former sweet serenity, 
which had only deepened with time, and had gained 
an added charm from the more tender curves of the firm 
lips and the steadfast gentleness of the dark eyes. If 
Lenore had been beautiful in past days, she was far 
more beautiful now. 



388 LENORE ANNANDALE. 

Slowly and dreamily she moved from the window, 
crossed the slippery panpietry work which now made 
the flooring- of the square hall, and mounted the fine old 
oak staircase. 

She traversed one long passage, and, opening a door 
at the end, entered a large, low, wainscoted room, into 
which a flood of summer sunshine was streaming 
through a great oriel window. 

Her entrance was greeted by a crow of delight from 
a six-months-old baby, who was sitting upon the lap of 
a grave, pale-faced woman in a black dress and white 
apron and cap. 

Lenore paused at the door, and gazed at her child, 
with a mother's peculiarly proud, sweet smile. 

“Is he not a nice boy, Campbell } ” 

“Ay, ma'am, indeed he is that — the best boy in the 
world ! " and Campbell's face softened wonderfully, and 
she gazed down into the laughing, rosy face of Lenore 's 
child. 

The young mother took her boy from his nurse's 
arms, and sat down upon the low, wide cushioned 
window-seat to fondle and play with him. 

“Isn’t he growing like his father, Campbell.? I 
think he will be his very image, don't you?" 

“Ay, ma'am, he is like his father and like you too. 
I can't say which he will take after most." 

“ Oh, it must be after Philip ! I have made up my 
mind to that. If ever he has a little sister, she may be 
like me if she chooses, but my boy is to grow up like 
Philip. I have quite decided that, baby," she said, 
pressing her lips upon the child's round shoulder and 
speaking half earnestly, half playfully. “Baby, do you 
hear ? You are to grow up just like your father—like 
him in body and like him in mind— brave and good and 


THE LAST, 


3S9 


tender and true — a noble, unselfish, God-fearing man. 
Oh, baby, baby, you do not know yet what a happy 
boy you are, to have for your father the very best man 
in all the world ! 

Sudden tears sprang to Campbell’s eyes as she 
caught the sound ot these murmured phrases. 

“ Eh, ma am,’' she said, drawing a long breath, “ you 
speak the truth — the baby does not know how much 
he has to be thankful for — a good father and a good 
mother. Ah, dearie me, if my poor dear mistress could 
have but used the words you have just spoken ! Poor 
lad, his father’s sins were his ruin. He took after his 
father, and broke his mother’s heart, and died in misery 
and disgrace. Oh, my poor mistress ! my poor mis- 
tress ! ” 

“ Her troubles are over now, Campbell," said Lenore 
gently. “She is at rest, and God’s mercy is very 
great : can we not hope and trust that mother and son 
are together at last and at peace ? His hand seemed 
heavy upon her in this life. Surely we can trust that 
His love will make amends a thousand-fold in the 
next. " 

“Yes, yes," answered Campbell, checking her tears. 
“ I do believe it. I am foolish to weep for her, when 
she is at peace. But when I see you with your child, 
so full of hope and joy, it brings back the time when 
she had a child to love and fondle, yet could only fear 
and shrink from the future. She divined but too well 
that his end would be shame and disgrace, hers misery 
and despair ; you can look into the future without mis- 
giving, your heart is full of hope and confidence." 

“ Yes, Campbell," answered Lenore with shining 
eyes, “I have hope and confidence in the power of a 
mother’s ceaseless prayers, and in the influence and 


390 


LENORE ANNANDALE, 


example of a father such as God has given to my 
boy.” 

“ God grant that he may grow up like his father ! ” 
said Campbell earnestly ; and Lenore uttered a quiet 
“Amen.” 

She was alone for a while with her child, this sweet 
summer’s afternoon ; but she was not alone long, for 
soon a light footfall sounded without, the door opened, 
and somebody looked in. 

“ Dora ! ” cried Lenore in joyful surprise. 

“ I am back, you see, Lenore. Gordon and I have 
both seen enough of London gayeties for one season, and 
I said I must be back to see you on your wedding-day 
and wish you joy. Almost a superfluous wish, I think. 
And the boy — how he has grown, and what a sweet 
child he is ! Baby, come to me. Isn't he just like 
Philip when he laughs } Aren’t you proud of him, Le- 
nore ? ” 

Lenore s smile was sufficient answer. She was eager 
to hear news of others. 

“ How is Gordon ? Is his lameness quite gone ? '* 

“All but : he never limps unless he is tired, or from 
habit ; and his stick is more for ornament than use, I 
tell him. We are going abroad next month, to some 
German baths that have been recommended, and then 
Gordon says he means to come back and shoot over 
the Scotch moors with the best of them. ” 

“ I hope he may,” answered Lenore, smiling. “And 
you are still quite happy, Dora .? ” 

“Oh, yes,” she answered quickly, adding, after a 
moment's pause, “ I do not mean that those fits of de- 
pression and gloom have quite gone. They come over 
him every now and again, and at times the old doubts 
and darkness seem to close round him. But it is not 


THE LAST. 


391 


often so, and the light comes back very quickly now, 
and I know so well how to soothe and cheer him that I 
do not grow depressed myself. It has been a long, 
hard battle, Lenore. It was not as I expected, one 
victory once and for all ; but, oh, it has been worth the 
fighting. It has made him such a far nobler, stronger 
man than ever he could have been without. Some- 
times his simple, manly faith puts mine to shame now, 
and makes me think of Philip. Yes, we are very hap- 
py, Lenore.” 

Lenore’s answer was another smile. After a brief 
pause she spoke again : 

“And now tell me some more. Tell me about Ter- 
ence and Julia. Have they made their town house as 
pretty as their country one ? ” 

“Quite, I think. Julia is really very clever and nice. 
She is a capital hostess, and they have such a nice set 
of friends, and give most charming little parties. Ter- 
ence is just his old, merry, fascinating self, only more 
manly and unselfish and thoughtful ; and their little 
Lenore is the very sweetest, loveliest child I have ever 
seen, not even excepting this little boy, if you will par- 
don me for saying so. ” 

“ Well, I suppose I must allow Terence’s daughter to 
have more beauty even than Philip’s son,” answered 
Lenore laughing. “Tell me about the mite. Can she 
walk and talk ? ” 

“Oh, yes ; she trots about the house and prattles and 
laughs the whole day long. It is so pretty to see Ter- 
ence with her. He used never to care for children ; 
but he simply idolizes his little girl, and would spoil her 
dreadfully if Julia would let him, but she can adore the 
child without over-indulging her. I don’t think Terence 
and Julia did need any link to bind them more closely 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 


39 ^ 

to one another ; but, if they did, I am sure they would 
find it in their sweet little daughter, Lenore. " 

‘ ‘ That is all very delightful ; we shall be pleased to 
have them back when the season is over. We have 
missed our visitors from Langdale and Heron’s Nest all 
these weeks.” 

“ You do not look as if you had pined in solitude,” 
returned Dora, laughing. “And now tell me, what 
news from Australia ? ” 

“ Very good indeed ! The farm is more thriving 
than ever, and Duff is quite a great man out there by 
this time. Marjory is to be married in a few months, 
and Jack has some naval appointment there which will 
give him much more time ashore than before. Made- 
line will divide her time between the farm and Mar- 
jory’s little home, according to circumstances ; and 
Archie is to go out to Duff very soon, as it is thought 
he will learn the business best upon the spot, now that 
his school-days are over, and he is still bent upon a 
farming life in the Colonies. Most likely Duff will get 
married before very long, and, in any case, there will 
be a comfortable home for the boy to go to, and a 
warm welcome awaiting him. ” 

“ And quite a colony of relatives out there. Well, I 
hope he will get on as well as Hector seems likely 
to do.” 

“ Yes ; is he not coming out well ? There seems no 
doubt as to his passing his examination brilliantly, and 
getting his Indian Civil Service berth. How well all 
the boys have done, Dora ! How wonderfully all our 
paths have opened out before us ! ” 

Dorans visit was not a long one ; she had only driven 
over for a brief glimpse at Lenore upon her wedding- 
day. When she had departed, the young wife walked 


THE LAST. 


393 


quietly down the terrace steps and across the sweep of 
velvet lawn, towards the wooded belt that hid the shin- 
ing Mere from sight, for it was there she was to meet 
Philip when the sun began to decline. 

She heard his horse’s steps approaching with a dull 
thud over the turf, before she caught sight of him. She 
heard him dismount and give some order to the groom, 
and then there was the sound of retiring horse-hoofs 
upon the turf. 

Philip ItSd been unavoidably absent since the pre- 
vious morning, on business connected with Hector’s ex- 
amination, and had been unable to pass his wedding- 
day with his wife, but had promised to be at home by 
six o’clock and to meet her beside the Mere. 

His steps came crashing through the underwood, 
and Lenore advanced to meet him with outstretched 
hands. 

“ Philip ! ” 

“ Lenore ! ” 

It was a very quiet and a very loving meeting. They 
had been separated only for thirty-six hours, yet there 
was as much of welcoming love on either side as if the 
hours had been weeks or months. Some love dwindles 
and cools with time, but the love which alone is worth 
the name, increases in fervor and in volume as the 
days pass by, and knows no change save that of growth. 
Such a love was that of Philip and Lenore. 

Such news as there was on either side was told 
and discussed. Every trivial detail of home life was 
sweetened and sanctified by the perfect unanimity of 
soul that existed between the two who ruled there. 

“You must come in now, Philip. You must have 
something to eat, and you must see hahy. He is so 
sweet ! ” 


394 


LENORE ANNANDALE. 



* ‘ Like his mother. ” \ 

“Like his father — they all say that. ” 

He put his arm round her shoulder as they walked 
towards the house. 

“ Our wedding-day, Len ore. ” 

“Yes, husband.'’ 

She kissed him, that was all. They needed no great 
demonstration to tell their love. 

“We have been very happy together.” 

“Yes, Philip. ” 

“ And our life looks very bright before us. ” 

“Yes, Philip. 

“God has been very good to us, Lenore ; and even 
if the future should bring trials and cares of which we 
do not dream now, we can trust Him through them all, 
knowing that the everlasting arms will never be with- 
drawn from us. ” 



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